사랑해 @dontstoptime - Tumblr Blog

Fountain Of Axtaliah - KSJ

Summary: You’re a hacker, and a damn good one --- if you do say so yourself. A legend in underground forums, the kind of person corporate sharks pretend don’t exist. Your job is simple: hack into the database of some spoiled CEO, dig up whatever dirt you could find and cash out. Easy money.

Until it’s not that simple.

Genre: SY-FY, cyber-punkish, strangers to lovers, slight enemies to lovers, angst, action, fluff. A bit of espionage and fake dating.

Word Count: (Part One) 27.6k

Warnings: mature language, dark dystopian/post-apocalyptic themes (including descriptions of environmental and societal collapse), implied violence, and brief mentions of parental neglect and widespread criminality. Reader discretion is advised. Attempted murder and wounds x2, swearing. cursing, making out but nothing too serious eheh. a lot of meme references and meta humour. The reader is sometimes called Birdie.

Notes: unfortunately...because of Tumblr's limitations on text posts, i have to split this into two parts, and part two would be posted tomorrow or, a bit later!!! I'll add the link to it at the bottom of the post!

Okay HELLO!! Happy Christmas to those who celebrate and good day to those who don't!! A little gift for you all :)) This was meant to come out much much sooner, but I wrapped it up super late. It also was NOT gonna be this damn long >:((. I'd planned for 20k at least but the plot said no and now we're here...!! This fic had been sooo much fun to write, i hope you guys find all the meme references i put in there. Enjoy!!!

masterlist

If you were wondering---just a tad bit---how exactly the world would look a couple hundred years from now, let’s just say it’s probably not what you’re thinking.

If your thoughts went along the lines of world peace, zero crime, and Mother Nature finally getting her moment to do some mother-ing---you’d be wrong.

See, Earth’s always been a shithole. It’s in the archives---what’s left of them, anyway. Environmental collapse. The rich preying on the desperate. Overpopulation so bad cities started building up instead of out. The ice caps melted in ’25, half the world drowned---the Great Flood 2.0, except Noah didn’t give a damn---and the rest choked on its own smoke. Snow fell in deserts. Acid rain burned through skylines. Humanity watched, cursed, then adapted---because that’s what it does best.

And that’s how the Rise began.

They called it a new dawn. But you know how people are with pretty names. What it really was, was a scramble. A desperate attempt to build higher, dig deeper, wire the world until even the dirt had a login.

Fast-forward a couple dozen or so generations, and the world hums different now. The sky’s owned by corporations, the ground by data farms. Cities glow like circuit boards---veins of neon running through towers that never sleep. The air buzzes like it’s carrying a thousand conversations at once.

Land of freedom, they call it. Don’t like your face? Get a new one. Want to date that robot server downtown? Go for it, Jan. No one bats an eye at anything anymore. Want to take a holiday on the Jupiter resort? Spend millions for your gate pass to fly out of orbit---you’d be lucky to get perks with that. Kids can get tattoos at twelve---yeah, that one threw you for a loop...well, it is a relatively new thing.

When you were twelve, your head was buried in books because you had a dad that stepped out for milk and didn’t look back and a mother who couldn’t care less that you were both starving. Too smart for your own good, they’d said, although it didn’t get you very far when you were little and college was just as hard to get into as it was two centuries ago.

The world’s still the same, no matter how much it twinkles. The strong eat the weak. The rich don’t give a damn about anyone and the government’s still lawless.

In less words---it’s an even bigger shithole.

But hey! At least the lights are pretty.

At least for people like you, that made your own way -----there’s always something to get by on. The world runs on circuits now. Wires breathe in every corner you look, systems locked tighter than the Pentagon.

Well… not for you, anyway.

Hackers are criminals---or so the government would tell you in their oppressive propaganda. They’re rats chewing through the wires of your brand-new TV set. But you? You can get into anywhere. No challenge is a challenge for you.

You probably could’ve used that big brain of yours to solve world hunger, or cure whatever plagues are still chewing through the slums.

Instead, you used it to get rich.

Sometimes it’s petty: lift a street vendor’s bogus card reader logs so she can steal back a week’s pay from a local courier who’s been skimming fares. Swap a jealous ex’s social feed for an embarrassing loop of their own old speeches. Patch a friend’s rent account with a tiny, invisible micro-transfer that keeps them fed for a month. Those are the scripts you run before breakfast---cheap, clean and satisfying.

Sometimes it’s elegant: ghost a senator’s public schedule so their bodyguard chases a ghost appointment while you slip a protest group past checkpoints. Reconstruct a deceased artist’s lost archive from corrupted shards and sell the restored files to a private buyer who wants the exclusivity. You trace fingerprints through six layers of obfuscation and stitch a reputation back together like it was never torn. Those jobs pay in more than credits---they pay in favours and stories that sell your name.

And then there are the big ones. The jobs that leave scorch marks on your trail.

You’ve rewritten corporate balance sheets, so a charity got a controversial multi-millionaire’s hidden philanthropic fund. You made an absolute liability vanish from the police servers long enough for an innocent person to get out of jail. Once, for a very specific client, you built a smell-proof blackbox that let them ferry a person past biometric tolls using nothing but a sequence of fake heartbeats and a rewired thermal signature. That one paid for a year of luxuries---and some mistakes you keep in a locked subroutine.

You’ve breached private vaults where people store not jewellery but memories---stitched consciousness backups saved under dead names. You don’t always take them. You admire how fragile those files are, how people tuck their whole lives into folders like they’re safe. Sometimes you return them, sometimes you sell them to collectors who like owning other people’s pasts.

You flirt with danger because you’re good at it. You like the artistry of a clean breach: a cascade of permissions peeling away like onion skin, a final tunnel that opens into a vault no one was meant to see. You write your own keys. You know where to press.

And when the job is ugly you still take it. Not because you’re merciless, but because you’re pragmatic. A job has parameters: scope, risk, payout. You estimate, you execute, and you disappear. The world’s laws are suggestions; your contracts are guarantees.

So, when the anonymized ping hits your client list that morning---no face, no rep, and one hell of a pay check-----surprisingly, you hesitated. You stared at it for a good long while, fingers pressed against your lips and your brows furrowed. Where the client's name should be---or whatever fake name they can come up with; you never question-----was just a string of number. Which marks the account being used as temporary. It's nothing unheard of, you’ve seen plenty of them.

It was about just past four am when it came in. That’s what you call ‘the desperate hour’ because it’s just after three am, when any normal person with too much time on their hands would be done wallowing in their overthinking and decide to do something.

You lean back into your chair, the wheels squeaking as you push away from your desk. Using your feet, you guide the chair back towards the door to your work room before pushing it open.

“Cali!” you shout, listening to the quiet. Somewhere about there’s a giggle and the unmistakeable sound of a palm striking skin. Irritated now, you call again, “Calico!”

A girl with ash blonde hair stumbles out of a room down the hall. Knee high silver chrome boots in her slack fingers, matching skirt riding up enough that her ass cheek peeks at you, red and no doubt smarting. You watch with mild disgust as she swaps spit with your partner in crime.

His hair’s a mess, shirt missing, well...it’s on the girl, hanging on for dear life by a single button. They don’t seem to be stopping, and you smack a hand against your door.

“Yo!”

The girl springs away, giggling like a blushing virgin caught in the act and have the balls to act bashful. Your friend half glares at you as he leads the girl past your room -----she fucking winked at you -----and up the stairs. After a moment you hear the door slam shut and footsteps coming back down. He stands at the bottom of the metal staircase and stares at you like a disappointed father.

“You are the biggest cock-block known to man.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Jimin? Play with your toys upstairs. And you’d better not have fucked in my room. I’ll skin you alive.” You grumble, wheeling your chair back to your desk as he comes closer. He stands in the doorway, frowning at you. It wouldn’t have been the first time Jimin had drunkenly stumbled into your bedroom and not the spare you had set up purely because he sleeps down here most of the time. You wish that was enough to save you from seeing his perky ass one too many times. You point at the dark marks scattered across his chest and neck, “did you even use protection? I heard there’s a new thing going around. It's like stage five Gonorrhoea.”

“Gina’s clean.”

“Her name’s Gina?” you laugh, and it grows into a cackle when you feel Jimin kick the back of your chair. “I didn’t even hear you come in last night.”

“That was... probably for the best.” Jimin smiles, the look in his eyes makes you shiver.

“You could’ve said that without the look. Ew. Now I’ve got an image in my head.” You scowl, and then, using your empty water bottle, you poke it into his tummy, “Can you go shower or something? You’re contaminating my precious air.”

“Excuse you, I smell amazing.” He protests, laughing.

“You smell like old man cologne, sweat and Gina.” You push harder until he steps back, swatting at your hand. “I’ll tell you what I was calling you for after you don’t smell like a nightclub.”

Jimin flicks your forehead before sauntering away.

Unfortunately, you can’t sell him for a corn chip. If “I’ll do it if you do it” were people, it would probably be the both of you---two brain cells sharing one bad idea at a time.

Jimin is your bestest friend in a five-hundred-mile radius, born and bred in the same gutter as you. Two rats from the slums, gnawing at wires and bad decisions. You used to joke that there must’ve been something in the drinking water when you were kids; you’re two peas in a pod, just a shot off each other in intelligence. Jimin was also too smart for his own good---dangerously smart, like the kind that could take apart a government drone and put it back together with a butter knife and duct tape.

When the government started handing out scholarships to the underprivileged, Jimin was first in line. But he refused because they had no place for your talent in coding (looking back on it now, they were probably looking down their noses at you). You still think that was the dumbest thing he’s ever done---brilliant, loyal and infuriatingly Jimin.

He had such a bright future ahead of him. A mind built for blueprints and machines, someone who could’ve designed the next generation of tech. Instead, he chose to give it all up to stick with you. You know, like an idiot. Could’ve been sitting pretty and retired at twenty-five.

But you’re doing fine. Really, you are. The dirty work pays enough to keep the lights on and the fridge humming. You don’t have to suck up to anyone in a suit or beg for scraps in a cubicle farm. You’ve carved out your own corner of the world---illegal, sure, but yours.

Wouldn’t change it even if you could go back in time and pimp smack your mother.

Sighing, you decide to clear the cluttered mess that is your table. Cleaning it free of empty water bottles and cup ramen containers, listening to the soft whirring of your computer system and the little bleep-bloops of the off-grid server monitor.

Most of your set up, you and Jimin designed and built yourselves. From junk parts and dumpster diving in the back alleyway of a tech factory. When you’d first started hacking, it was risky, two kids with nothing better to do and absolutely nothing to lose. When you got your first pay out, it was small, because no one wanted to trust a little kid with big work, you were lucky that guy took a chance on you.

With the little bit of money you earned back then, you’d managed to get you and Jimin out of the slums and into the gutter. Just a little higher from nothing, but it was everything to you both back then.

You earned your way, and when you got your first big gig, you’d used the money to buy an ancient warehouse. It had an underground system that worked wonders for you. You left the upper portion for Jimin to do what he liked, and with the money you were earning, he’d made something of the old place.

The outside exterior still looked very much an abandoned old warehouse. Sure, you and Jimin live cushy now, but on the down-low for obvious reasons.

You shove the last empty cup into the bin and stretch, feeling the ache between your shoulders. The rest of the warehouse is quieter. When you step out, the light changes from cold blue to a softer amber glow.

Your section of the place is clean, modern, but never sterile---wide couches, a cracked digital photo frame that cycles through half-broken pictures of you and Jimin from when you both had nothing. You don’t replace it. Feels wrong to.

When you first bought the place, you and Jimin busted out the walls to make a wider space for an open plan living room area with the kitchen.

The walls are raw concrete, softened with threadbare rugs and a scattering of mismatched shelves, some made from reclaimed wood, others from polished scrap metal Jimin insisted on keeping. Here and there, you’ve tucked in small personal touches: a jar of pressed flowers, a few sketches pinned with magnets, a single potted plant struggling toward the faint amber glow of the overhead lights. You may have let Jimin set most of the tone---smooth floors, clean counters, streamlined furniture---but subtle evidence of you lingers, stubborn and unpolished, like your handwriting on the edge of a notebook.

Above, pipes and conduits stretch across the ceiling, some exposed, some woven into the wood panelling Jimin added. Thin strands of amber LED filament weave among them, low and warm, tracing gentle arcs that outline the living space without ever feeling like a light show. There’s a soft hum of life from the tech tucked into the corners---servers, work consoles, a holographic workspace that folds down from the wall at your command---but nothing flashy, nothing meant to impress anyone but yourselves.

A long table dominates one side, scarred from years of projects and meals alike. Chairs and stools around it are an eclectic mix---some polished, some splintered---brought together by necessity and taste rather than design. The kitchen island is smooth steel with subtle neon inlays that glow faintly when you place your hand near sensors embedded in the surface.

Couches sink deep, their leather cracked and supple, cushions molded to the memory of those who lounge there most. Behind them, one wall is a patchwork gallery of sorts: framed schematics, notes in your messy handwriting, a few scratched-up vinyl records.

The absence of windows gives the space a certain intimacy---no city to intrude, no sky to distract. Instead, it’s a world unto itself, lit by gentle amber and flickers of holographic displays when needed. You can feel the weight of the ceiling, the subtle coolness of concrete underfoot, and the warmth from the heating pipes that run along the walls. Every item, every surface, is carefully practical yet carries a trace of memory, of small victories, of stubborn pride.

It is your underground sanctuary: warm, quiet, and unpretentious, a place that reflects both the life you’ve clawed together and the small joys you refuse to let go of.

You cross the living space and grab a protein bar from the box on the kitchen counter, ripping it open with your teeth. The wrapper hits the bin with a soft crinkle just as Jimin comes down the stairs again.

Hair damp, shirt clean, and---thank God---smelling like soap. He drops onto the couch with a groan, towel still hanging around his neck. He shifts, looking at you from over the backrest of the couch.

“All good?” he asks, pulling at the hem of his grey tee-shirt, damp spots clinging to his skin.

You take a bite of the protein bar, chewing. The chocolate underside smears against the warmth of your fingers, “Got a job offer.”

He raises a brow, interested. “Big one?”

“Yeah. Real big.” You toss the other half into your mouth, licking the chocolate smudges from your fingers, and swipe open your Holowatch console. The holographic message flickers, blooming in a shade of chrome blue and enlarged as it’s projected upwards from your wrist. You walk over to the living room area, pointing at the message. “Didn’t even say what it is. Just… payment details. That’s it.”

“That’s weird,” Jimin says, sitting up, leaning forward squinting. He studies the message with a slight frown, and then his eyes flicker up to yours, “You taking it?”

You shrug, pretending to think about it. But the truth runs deeper than that.

You’ve got enough money. Real accounts, fake ones. The ones that keep the lights on, and the ones that stay buried where no one can sniff them out. You could retire tomorrow and live three lives without blinking. But greed isn’t about need. It’s muscle memory. You see, when you grow up hungry, you never really stop chasing the next meal---even when you’re full.

“It’s a lot of money, Jimin.”

“It’s always a lot of money,” he counters, tilting his head and then his eyebrows disappear into his bangs. He waves his hand, wrist rolling, “That’s usually the part where I tell you it’s too risky and you agree with me. This could be anything.”

You glance at the screen again. That those numbers feel like bait, shiny and deliberate. You know it. He knows it. Still, your fingers twitch at the thought of it---another code to break, another secret to steal.

“That’s true. Only one way to find out.” you say finally, nodding more to yourself, “Guess I’ll take it.”

Jimin groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” You grin. “But at least I’m rich.”

He throws the towel at your head, laughing. “And morally bankrupt.”

“Occupational hazard.”

You toss the towel back, softer. He catches it, shakes his head with a half-smile, “I still don’t think it’s a good idea...it’s really vague.”

“Won’t be the first time.” You shrug, and then wave a hand, “It’ll be fine.”

You turn off the holo, the job’s digits still glowing faintly in your mind. Jimin doesn’t look too convinced but gratefully says nothing.

You wander back in the kitchen tapping on the fridge monitor interface. Great invention really, less of a practicality, more of a cure for standing in front of your open fridge syndrome. Scratching at your tummy, you stare blankly at the display ingredients stacked neatly inside.

The TV turns on and Jimin surfs the channels before settling on some ancient ass reality show. Something out of ‘21, bunch of people on an island trying to find love amongst themselves. You don’t know how he finds that entertaining.

“Cali, wanna cook something?” you call, head swivelling like a bird to look at him across the room. His head of dark hair pops up just to scowl at you.

“You got two hands.”

“Just say you hate me, damn.” You roll your eyes and move towards the cupboards instead.

Jimin’s voice floats over, “I swear to god if you make cup ramen again...”

“Well.” You snort, pulling the cupboard open, eyeing the various flavours, “If you cooked something, you wouldn’t have to worry about that.”

Jimin sucks his teeth, and you turn to face him with a mock expression of abashed shock, “Park Jimin. Did you just tell me to kiss your ass?”

“Why, do you want to?” He fires back, and then he stands, laying out the towel along the back. “I’ve been doing squats.”

You make a face, “I don’t know where you’ve been.”

He walks over, smacks your hand and closes the cupboard. He stares you down and you can already see him caving, “What’re you feeling for?”

You make a sound that was far more gremlin under a bridge than it needed to be. He squats down to rummage through the pots and pans in the cupboards below.

“Three courses.”

He turns his head slowly to look up at you, eyes narrowing, “You better be joking.”

“Yeah, but it’s just a suggestion.”

He pulls a couple pots from the cupboard, raising to his full height, “You should know that I hate you.”

“That’s not news.” You wrap your arms around his middle, clinging to his back as he moves to the stove embedded into the island counter. He taps on the interface; sleek black and fine silver chrome, it flares in purple, temperature lines rippling along the glass.

He turns and you turn with him, he fills the pot with water and sighs loudly, “You’re like a damn nanite. Get off me.”

Laughing you release him and let him work. Before long, you had stir-fried noodles and fried chicken in bowls. You would argue that it’s definitely not breakfast, but who the hell cares? You even let him convince you to eat with him rather than ‘crawl back to your cave’.

“Mi, this isn’t even entertaining...what am I looking at?” with your mouth full of noodles and just-right veggies, you point the gnawed end of your drumstick bone at the TV.

“This was all the craze back in the day.” He shrugs.

You think if you stay there and zoned out hard enough it’d make a bit of sense to you. Eventually, you get back to your work, abandoning Jimin to his...show. Sipping on water, you actually contemplate the client request.

Sighing, you accept it. At the bottom left of the screen, an encrypted text box appears. It blinks for a while, all but three seconds before the first message comes it. The person must’ve been sitting at their devices waiting for you to accept.

[Temporary User]: Hello.

[Temporary User]: I require your services.

Who talks like that? You blink, staring at the screen before your fingers fly across the keyboard.

[Shade]: What can I help you with?

[Temporary User]: I need information about someone.

This guy is taking forever to get to the point, you sigh, watching the chat indicator blink and stop and then start up again.

[Temporary User]: A CEO. All you need to do is get into his company servers and tell me what you find.

That’s...it? You squint at the initial client request, the amount of money offered and then back at the task they’ve asked. Well...this person clearly has money they have no idea what to do with, and who are you to tell them how to toss it around?

[Shade]: I can do that. Who’s the guy?

[Temporary User]: Perfect. His name is Kim Seokjin. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. CEO of Vionix Industries.

Your brows go up, a sharp laugh bubbling from your lips. Kim Seokjin? Thee CEO of CEOs? Everyone who’s anyone knows the guy. Granted, not for anything remotely good...well, that’s really from an objective viewpoint.

Vionix Industries is the Godfather of tech. Its name practically synonymous with innovation. Founded during the third wave of the digital revolution, it began with prosthetic integration tech: cybernetic limbs that moved like flesh, nerve-linked and seamless. Within a decade, they expanded into planetary data mapping; launching orbital satellites that didn’t just photograph terrain, but read energy grids, water veins, fault lines, and atmospheric changes in real time. It changed everything from agriculture to climate modelling to warfare.

When the world needed to see itself clearer, Vionix gave it vision.

When governments wanted control, Vionix sold them omniscience.

Their breakthroughs built the infrastructure of the modern age; neural-link interfaces, biomechanical AI companions, self-evolving operating systems, the first functioning digital consciousness. Their name was in every boardroom, every orbit, and every surveillance act. They had patents in every field that mattered.

And at the heart of it all was legacy. Kim Hye-Shin’s precision. His son’s ruthless expansion. Decades of brilliance.

Then came Kim Seokjin.

The golden heir.

Where his forefathers built an empire, Seokjin built a reputation one scandal at a time. The media called him the Porcelain Prince of Vionix: all polish, no substance. His name was on every tech journal’s lips, and they never had anything nice to say, not that the man gave them anything nice to say about him. Lavish parties sprawling across penthouse floors, champagne baths and guests who woke up with their names in headlines for one thing or another.

Every week, a new photo: him laughing, glass in hand, silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down, some new socialite on his arm. Notoriously difficult to work with, but somehow always available for a magazine shoot and interview.

The most recent scandal? A professional interview for Tech Visionary, he arrived at still drunk from the night before; hungover, reeking of whiskey and unable to string a coherent sentence together. The footage went viral within the hour.

A disgrace to his name.

A mockery of the dynasty that built the future. Practically spitting in the face of his Great-Grandfather that started Vionix and built it from the ground up.

And yet, for all his incompetence… the world still watched him. You would think the public would’ve grown bored of the man by now. He’s done the same thing every damn week, you don’t understand the appeal. He’s as exciting as watching paint dry.

You’re not sure if he’s got anything to dig up. One Google search will get you everywhere.

[Shade]: Information on that guy is practically free?

[Temporary User]: Are you refusing?

[Shade]: Did I say that? I’ll do it.

“Easy money.” You mutter, shaking your head. Again, you’re not gonna tell anyone how to spend their hard-earned cash. They’re probably after his secrets or whatever that man could keep hidden. Which probably isn’t much. Unless they’re interested in his party guest list.

[Shade]: I would need 24 hours.

[Temporary User]: Great. I’ll be in touch.

The chat box winks closed, and you lean back into your chair, shaking your head again. The twenty-four hours wasn’t something you necessarily needed, it’s simply because you’d be hacking into Vionix. A huge company that, without a doubt, would be crawling with security codes and trip sensors. You actually have to be careful.

You spend the first hour buried in public detritus; an archaeologist of press releases. Investor decks that read like motivational posters, product spec sheets for consumer neural implants, glossy campaign videos tagged with too-many hashtags, API docs so painfully dry they could anesthetize a server. Career postings for Vionix’s summer intern program. Customer support logs about a dozen people who can’t figure out why their companion-bot won’t stop singing lullabies in strange languages.

You skim, you archive and you yawn. This is the boring scaffolding of an empire: perfunctory and tidy.

When it was clear that there was nothing of interest on the public servers, you move inward.

The map of the network folds up and you push deeper---private VLANs, R&D sandboxes, legal partitions. The company smells different here: less curated press, more human sweat. Meeting minutes with sticky-note sarcasm. Project timelines with blank spaces for “contingencies.” Expense requests with obscene line items. A messy folder of internal chat logs where someone named Mina complains about the coffee and the head of logistics schedules a golf weekend. Little domestic things that make a corporation feel like a large, neurotic animal.

You let yourself be bored a little longer -----really, there’s nothing interesting---until you stumble across a doorway somebody forgot to stone over.

It’s a private cluster under an innocuous tag: /board/secure/comm. That one is not supposed to exist in the places you’re poking. It looks like a stub, actually, a placeholder so that the more inexperienced can find it when they’re looking. Handy.

The encryption is polite and aggressive. you easily slip through it, like water finding a hairline crack in glass. Authentication tokens misrouted, an old admin key cached in a deprecated node, a service handshake that still answers an old secret phrase---nothing dramatic. You don’t need to narrate the theft; you just get in. That’s the art: make it look like it belonged there the whole time.

The room opens like a private salon.

Thread titles are clinical: Board.Topics.Q4, Exec.Private, Legacy.Transfers. At the top of the list is a chat thread labelled simply: “Doyun & Associates -----Private.” The head of the board---Han Doyun---he’s the one who smiles in photos with his hand on Seokjin’s shoulder and says the right things at shareholder dinners. You can find out a lot about a person by their eyes, they tell, after all, Han Doyun always gave you such shark vibes, like he’s in the wrong profession. He should be in one that demands a lot more from people who has a lot less.

The messages are certainly...something. It’s clear these two had no idea how to properly encrypt shit or else you wouldn’t be here staring at it. It was dated a month and a half ago:

[Han.Doyun]: He’s a fool. Every quarter he burns through more capital, every headline drags us further down. I don’t know how much longer the shareholders will tolerate him.

[Min.Taejin]: Public sympathy still clings to the family name. But the board is restless. They want control returned to adults.

[Han.Doyun]: Control will return once he’s gone. Quietly. We keep the legacy intact. No scandal, no blood on paper. Just an unfortunate accident.

[Min.Taejin]: Do we even need subtlety? The man can barely spell his own title half the time. A little nudge, and gravity will do the rest.

[Han.Doyun]: Subtlety prevents questions. We’ll arrange the contractors. External. Disposable.

[Min.Taejin]: And the inheritance? There’s talk he’s been funnelling funds into something private off record. Some secret project.

[Han.Doyun]: Yes. I’ve heard. A tip came in last week about something enormous. If it’s real, from what I’ve heard, it’s worth trillions. And that idiot doesn’t have the sense to guard it properly.

[Min.Taejin]: He probably thinks he’s building a toy. Still, if there’s even a fraction of truth to it…

[Han.Doyun]: Then we take it. Whatever he’s working on becomes Vionix property the moment he’s out of the picture. The contracts will transfer posthumously. Simple.

[Min.Taejin]: And if he somehow lives long enough to open his mouth?

[Han.Doyun]: He won’t. Schedule it for the gala. The cameras will be our alibi.

You read it twice because your brain refuses to stitch the sentences together the first time: quietly gone. Contractors. Trillions. A secret project. They’re talking about erasing a man like they’re adjusting the lighting in a boardroom.

Your palms go cool. Not fear, exactly. More the hollow, surprised stillness of a body that just learned the floor it stands on is gone. You blink once, then the edges of annoyance sharpen. The audacity. The clumsy sanctimony. The complacent certainty of men who think they’re owed what they didn’t build.

You scroll. There are attachments. A roster of contractors---black-market brokers with names scrubbed into hashes, transfer windows, an account flagged for a “special operations” payout. Flight manifests. A timeline that pins the “fateful accident” to a high-profile event where Seokjin will be seen surrounded by cameras and crowds. They outline contingency plans: if the cameras fail, a staged accident; if there’s suspicion, a medical misread; if worse comes, an alibi old enough to go viral and disappear into noise.

You let the words settle. Corporate language, budget lines, murder plans. Polite monsters in tailored suits.

Your first instinct is stupid and immediate: Who the hell hired you? The anonymized client who tossed you the gig without a spec? Are they trying to outsource conscience? Are they doing surveillance? You scroll back up to the chat header. No extra tags. No breadcrumbs. Whoever messaged you knew exactly what to send and exactly how little to say.

You should close the window. Delete the evidence. Walk back to the sofa, eat the leftover chicken, pretend you never saw anything that could get your hands dirty with a marked man’s death. That would be the pragmatic move. Safe.

Instead, your mouth tastes like iron. You sit very still and let a new machine start in your head: problem recognition shifting into something that looks suspiciously like planning. The money flickers in the corner of your mind---the obscene number that brightened the client’s offer---and you think, not for the first time, about what you value and where you draw the line.

You aren’t a martyr, but your inaction can cost a man his life. It’s not your business, but now you’re here and you feel like you're staring down the barrel of a gun and someone’s telling you to walk a tightrope over uncertainty.

You copy the thread into a locked buffer, a ghost of the file you’ll need. Then you mull over it for hours, the same thought running through your mind: What would Jesus do? You can warn him, maybe.

You sit with your head propped up on your fist, staring blankly at your screens with a frown. Your ass is starting to ache, and you wiggle your toes in your socks to bring feeling back to your legs.

You sit very still and let the city’s neon buzz gloss over you while your fingers map the problem the way you map networks---nodes, points of failure, empathy as a nonfactor. The question isn’t whether you warn him. It’s how to do it without turning your life into a headline. Is there a way you can do that without getting in too deep?

First: get him alone. You ghost into the public routing, trace the comm nodes that bounce his traffic, and find the thin thread that’s more forgiving than the rest---a personal line he never thought to harden because, of course, he probably never thinks. It’s ugly beneath his gloss: an old number tied to a vanity carrier, a lazy auto-forward that still points to a disposable handset. Amateur hour. Perfect.

You craft the message like you’d craft an exploit---short, cold, and no flourish. The sort of thing that reads like a warning, you’d hope.

Seokjin -----meet tonight at The Lumen, east mezzanine. Midnight. Come alone. Don’t wear your watch. -----A friend.

You don’t say who you are. You don’t tell him you crawled through his company’s veins and found men in suits arranging his funeral as if it were paperwork. You’re not trying to be noble. You want one thing: him breathing the morning after and a clear conscious.

Sending the ping is mechanical. You slip it through the feed his concierge checks---one of those soft, stupid pipelines the rich assume is safe because it’s cushioned by service contracts and smiling faces. The message slides into his screen. You watch the delivery tick from grey to green. Then you watch the tiny double dot that says “read” and hold your breath like it’s some kind of superstitious ritual.

He reads it and he doesn’t reply.

Second: satisfy the client without burning the trail. You compile everything public---press kits, investor slides, ordnance on product releases, the usual corporate fluff. From the private layers, you pull meeting minutes, expense statements, HR whining, a folder of the R&D timelines that’s mostly mundane but useful for anyone looking for leverage. You scrub metadata, resequencing the logs so the files look tidy and unremarkable, then encrypt the package with a key for the client to use and push it to the drop. You include a tidy little checksum note delivery confirmed, files intact.

You don’t include the board chat. You don’t include the contractor roster or the payment windows or the line that reads like a murder memo. You copy it, lock it in a secondary buffer, and bury that buffer behind five different dead drops and fake identities. If anyone asks, you didn’t see anything you weren’t paid to see.

The client pays immediately, because that’s how obscene offers work---cash first, conscience later. You feel the number in your accounts like a bad aftertaste. This became less about the money when you got into the private servers, you don’t even want it anymore.

You don’t tell Jimin. You don’t tell him because he’ll either try to talk you out of it, and talk sense at you, or he’ll plant that smug, inevitable “I told you so” like a flag in a battlefield. It would be best that he’s not involved in... whatever this is. And hopefully, this turns out to be nothing at all... Let him sleep. Let him keep being the idiot who distrusts scholarships to stick with you.

You lock the buffers, purge the ephemeral traces, put everything on a flash drive and then you sit with the after that sounds like a drumbeat behind your ribs. You didn’t do this to be a hero. You did it because you have a mirror and you clean it when it gets too dusty. You did it because, profit aside, the idea of men with spreadsheets scheduling someone’s death like a budget line is obscene in a way that makes your stomach clench.

There’s selfishness in the choice, yeah---clear conscience is a currency you’ve hoarded at times. But it’s not the ugly kind. It’s the kind that lets you sleep with your eyes closed two nights in a row. That matters. Small mercies matter when you’ve learned not to trust anything bigger.

You slide your chair back, feel the mechanics click, and stand. The warehouse smells faintly of oil and noodles and the kind of detergent Jimin likes. You walk to the windowless wall where the holo frame sits and watch the city pixels smear into a smear of indifferent colour.

You don’t know how this would work, maybe he’d think it’s phishing, and ignore it. Somewhere where a man who drinks too much will think he’s invincible and a ghosted message will feel like a prank.

You refill your water. You tell yourself you’ll do two things next: sleep, and plan.

Plan what? You don’t know yet. Rescue, maybe. Maybe exposure, that is...if you can do it without becoming a target. Maybe you should do nothing at all and quietly watch from the shadows. That’s...not an option, no matter how tempting it seems to you. The job changed. The brief turned into a choice. Consequences will follow, whether you like them or not.

You go back to the console and open the locked buffer. The board’s chat sits there, patient and stupid and criminal. You unplug the external drive, slide it into a Faraday pouch, and tuck it in a drawer under loose sheets of paper.

You end up not sleeping. You pull up the city feeds and watch the time until midnight tick closer, and you feel, absurdly, like a kid waiting for fireworks to start.

When it was about eleven pm, you shower and get dressed in something simple; jeans, a plain tee-shirt and a dark-wash denim jacket. The Lumen was a prime party spot smacked in the middle of downtown; some place you’ve only ever seen from the safety of passing cars and live streams. It's not your scene.

Jimin’s been there more times than he could count on his stubby little fingers. You’re certain that’s where he met Gina.

You wonder at your outfit in the mirror of your bedroom, frowning. You’re certainly underdressed for where you’re going, but you very well couldn’t tell the guy to meet you in a back alleyway. Besides, you’re going there for no other reason than having a clear conscious. You’ve already been paid, so afterwards you can move on with your life and pretend you hadn’t seen anything at all.

Your boots scuff along the floor, clinking softly against the black steel steps as you head upstairs. You pat your pocket every few seconds to make sure the external drive is in there.

You push the door open and let it swing closed behind you. The door to your section of the warehouse sits underneath a steel landing that cuts the space in half. The stairs that lead up towards it is a spiralling thing off to your right that goes up to Jimin’s bedroom space.

To your left is a kitchen and dining hybrid, separated from the rest of the room by a panelled glass wall. It looks a lot warmer than your mostly dark scheme below; white speckled granite countertops and beige wood. Where you had limited your space to only the basic needs of today’s technology, Jimin embraced it.

During the day, most of the light comes from the slanted sunroof above Jimin’s bedroom loft. He’d stripped the ceiling to install windows there, so that he could seek the sky on its less cloudy nights.

The middle of the outer space beyond is dominated by a large couch set, leather and brown that cages the space in a boxy semi-circle. The soft white light comes from the pendant lamps hanging from above on impossibly thin wiring. It makes the dark rug that covers the concrete flooring seem even darker. A large TV sits against the wall, one that Jimin barely ever uses.

A small portion of the room is taken up by Jimin’s office-work space. Like the kitchen area, it’s sectioned by floor to ceiling panel glass walls. Though, these ones are frosted and can be made clear at the touch of a button.

His workbench stretches almost the entire length of the wall -----an altar of organized chaos. Spools of filament, soldering irons, precision cutters, and a charred anti-static mat scarred by a thousand prototypes. Half-assembled drones hang from ceiling hooks like metal bats in stasis, their wings sleek and skeletal -----chrome, graphite and midnight blue.

Two monitors float above the desk on mechanical arms, hydra-like, their screens filled with code and thermal readings. A third screen sits lower, dedicated to schematics -----components blown apart and annotated in neon handwriting only Jimin understands.

In one corner -----a charging rack of palm-sized exploratory bots, all glossy white and faintly humming, light strips breathing softly like they’re asleep.

It smells faintly of ozone, copper, and burnt plastic. Sometimes it takes days for that scent to get out of your nose and out of Jimin’s hair.

He does all his work there, and it’s where he sits now, tinkering with a drone. The stick of a lollipop pokes out the side of his mouth, glasses with a magnifying tool perched on his nose as he pokes an electric screwdriver about. His tablet lays near his hand, which he turns to him and slides around for a minute before muttering to himself and going back to the drone.

As you walk across the living room, he catches your visage and looks up. “Hey, Birdie. Where’re you off to?”

His right eye looks impossibly large with the magnifying tool, and then he tilts his head, peering at you above the frame. “...Dressed like that?”

You wave a hand, “Out.”

Albeit it’s for his own good, you feel guilty that you’re keeping it from him.

“I won’t be too long. Just gonna grab a drink.”

Jimin raises a brow, and before you can get too far, he slips off the stool he’s sitting on and takes off his glasses. He walks over to the doorway of his workshop, work forgotten. “As in... outside outside? Is the sky falling?” he squints behind you, ducking his head a little to look up at the windows above his bed.

His eyes trail back to you, a twinkle there. A smile curls the corners of his mouth upwards, plush lips parting around his crooked front tooth. “Are you going on a secret date?”

“Sure, Cali, let’s call it that.” You pull your keys from the pocket of your jacket, wrapping your fingers securely around the cold metal.

“Shit, really?” He eyes you up and down with scrutiny this time, but there’s a certain mirth there, “dressed like that?”

You sigh and he goes on, “Where’re you going?”

“Lumen.”

“Dressed lik---”

“Jimin.”

He puts his hands up in surrender, “Just wanted to make you aware that you look like you haven’t seen the light of day ever. You’ll scare off your date.”

You give him the finger, and he blows you a kiss, watching you as you walk towards the door.

“Be safe! And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” He calls out, wiggling his eyebrows with a smile.

“That’s not a very long list, Jimin.”

When you get outside, the steel door closes behind you and the biometric lock system beeps. The warehouse sits on the city’s fringe, where the skyline begins to bruise the horizon and the ground still smells faintly of machine oil.

Your car waits where you left it---your car, not one of those chrome, self-driving pods that swarm the highways like obedient insects. You hate those. The design is ugly. It looks exactly how a kid from ages ago would imagine a car in the future to look; smooth and silver and kind of round. You’re pretty sure it’s a passion project for someone’s grandkid.

Your car’s an old thing by everyone else’s standards---Jimin likes to stand and make fun of it for kicks---: a deep green coupe with manual locks, chipped paint, and an honest-to-God steering wheel. You bought it years ago, back when the idea of ownership still meant something. People stare when you drive it through the city---half in disbelief, and the other half turning their noses up because how dare?

You chuckle to yourself as you slide into the seat, the leather soft and familiar under your palms, and start her up. The engine rumbles awake, purring while turn the heat on, you rub your fingers together. The vents make a little rattling sound as the fans sputter to life; you should fix that.

The drive downtown takes twenty minutes if the roads behave. Neon arteries run through the city, pulsing with holographic ads that ripple across glass façades. Giant screens shimmer with faces of pop idols and politicians, voices selling perfection in thirty-second bursts. Drones skim overhead, their red sensors blinking like restless eyes.

The world is bright and glittery, and nothing dazzles your eyes anymore.

You stick to the old roads of the city, thankfully you’re not the only person with an older model car. Mostly elderly folks keep ‘em nowadays, but there’s even less of them on the roads.

Luckily for you, that means it’s less of a hassle to drive to the centre of downtown. An old song plays on the radio as you stop at a red light, you tap your fingers to the beat but you’re not really listening to it.

You don’t know exactly what you’re going to tell Seokjin if he does manage to show. Somehow you don’t think, ‘Hey so someone paid a shit load of money for me to hack into your company, and I found out that your own board wants you dead, ha-ha’ would fly. He’d probably call the cops. Or, at the very least think you’re bat shit insane.

You sigh, leaning your head against your hands on the steering wheel. You turn your head to look out the window, at the people walking up and down the sidewalks despite the hour, the old shops that have long been boarded over. Eaten up by time or left behind by people seeking greater, more modern things.

The green light glows against your dashboard, and you push your car forward.

You pull the coupe into a tight space between two silent, black-glass autonomous vehicles. They look down their metaphorical noses at your chipped paint and rattling vents, but you ignore them. They might be sleek and safe, but yours has a soul, and the soul smells faintly of gasoline, not sterilizing spray.

The Lumen is a vertical wall of chrome and light, bleeding neon rainbows into the smoggy night sky. It looks like an extruded corporate symbol. You park, hit the manual lock, and slide out, immediately feeling the city pressure hit you---the cold air, the distant pulse of bass, the faint, sweet-chemical scent of recreational use already drifting from the heavy, automated doors.

You walk toward the entrance. You know what you look like: a ghost in a denim jacket and decent jeans, surrounded by a herd of creatures wearing materials that cost more than your car. Their fabrics shimmer with self-cleaning polymers, their footwear glows softly, and their hair is styled with impossible, architectural precision. They look like expensive, genetically optimized goldfish. You feel like a rat that snuck in through the ventilation shaft.

Inside, the sound hits you like a physical wall---a deep, resonant thud that vibrates in your chest cavity, and nearly turns your teeth loose. The main floor is a sensory obscenity. The ceiling is too high, the light is too rapid, and the air is thick and hot with the smell of cheap ambition and expensive champagne.

“Tacky,” you mutter under your breath. It’s too loud to hear anything else, which is probably the point.

The crowd is dense, a sluggish river of polished plastic and oiled skin. Everyone is either laughing too hard at nothing or staring blankly at the floating, three-dimensional holographic projections of stylized dancers that drift through the air like transparent, blue phantoms. You push through the crush, annoyed by the sheer inefficiency of these bodies---they take up too much space, they move too slowly, and their focus is criminally diverted. They are the same idiots who click phishing links and leave ‘1234’ as their network password, just in better clothes.

You make your way to the back perimeter, seeking the stairs. The mezzanine is your target, the east mezzanine---elevated, slightly more exclusive, but still offering a great view of the inevitable fall. The irony is not lost on you: the perfect spot for a subtle exchange, or for an assassin to ensure a clean shot.

Climbing the stairs, the air gets marginally cooler, and the bass becomes slightly more directional; less overwhelming. You arrive on the mezzanine level. It’s less crowded up here, featuring velvet couches and small, private booths protected by thin, shimmering kinetic-light screens that flicker with distracting, abstract patterns. The patrons here are older, quieter, and the deals they’re closing are probably far dirtier than anything happening on the dance floor below.

You scan the area, hands tucked into your jacket pockets, feeling the solid outline of the external drive.

It’s midnight. You’re on time. You look at the spot you specified: a small, low wall overlooking the main floor, slightly shielded by a potted, glowing plant. You lean against the railing, feeling exposed but professional.

Alright, porcelain prince, you think, ignoring the dizzying lights below. Your turn.

You wait, watching the crowd, trying to blend into the shadows of the gaudy architecture. The air smells a headache inducing mixture of different perfumes. You want to be home, where the smell is ozone and burnt copper and Jimin’s questionable cologne, not this fragrance of imminent disaster.

The music hammers on, the lights flash, and you’re calculating the odds of getting out of here without a full security scan when a voice, smooth and perfectly pitched to cut through the din without shouting, speaks right behind you.

“You look rather underwhelmed, considering you have a private meeting with the most sought-after man in the hemisphere.”

You rotate slowly on your heel, years of living with Jimin has forced you to be prepared to be snuck up on, and thankfully, it doesn’t make you jump out of your skin.

The man standing before you is undoubtedly Kim Seokjin, dressed impeccably in a white turtleneck sweater -----which somehow makes his broad shoulders look even more so ---tucked into sharp black slacks. The shine of his leather shoes reflects the club's neon floor lights. His hair rests perfectly, a side part that shows off his forehead and lets just a bit sway above his left eyebrow.

He should start suing for photos, honestly. Doesn’t do him justice at all. Now isn’t the time for thoughts like that, though.

Confusion furrows your brow; you look off to the side and then turn to check if there was anyone behind you and then point at yourself. Like the one meme of that white kid. Absolute classic. It's still around today if you look in the right places...getting off topic.

Seokjin lets out a chuckle that’s more a puff of air than a roll of sound, “I got your message.”

You know how in those silly kid’s cartoons where there’s tens of little you’s running around keeping everything going? You feel like they’ve all frozen up with a red, flashing warning alarm blares on.

Your brain stutters. You blink, staring at him. He was supposed to be confused, maybe indignant, certainly defensive. Not knowing who you were, let alone acknowledging the anonymous ping you sent. He shouldn’t have approached you first. What the fuck is this?!

“Excuse me?”

A slow, sweet smile curled his plush lips, revealing a flash of genuine, unexpected amusement. He tilted his head, the posture making him look less regal, more predatory.

He takes a step towards you and leans into your space. The scent of his cologne was dizzying; sharp and clean and something slightly fruity. The warmth of his breath races down your ear and the side of your neck and sends and involuntary shiver chasing after it.

“I trust the payment was satisfactory?” he asks, his voice smooth like velvet and he pulls away, smiling patiently like he’s waiting for you to catch up to him.

It takes a good few seconds, where you brain has to stop and push the power button for your frontal lobe. You have a strange, unnerving feeling like you’re a teen who’s just been pantsed in the middle of a full cafeteria. Or a joke just flew over your head like an airplane.

“You... you’re ---”

“Correct.” He says, and then he turns away from you, eyes scanning the mezzanine. With a gentle hand on your arm, he turns you towards a booth in a far corner, near a decorative water feature that would mercifully mute some of the noise.

“We shouldn’t discuss corporate treason standing next to the raw sewage of high society,” he murmurs, his tone dry as dust. He gestures toward the booth, inviting you go in first.

Your brain is working double time as he sits opposite you. You’ve half a mind to reach for your watch and scan him. There’s absolutely no way that this man and the man running rampant in the tabloids are the same. His eyes aren’t dulled by substance or alcohol, they’re wide and bright, a deep brown, almost black that looks far too intelligent to belong to him.

Either you’re talking to an android replica, or The Porcelain Prince is just a perfectly curated mask donned to hide the man sitting before you now.

“You’ve found something in the servers, yes?” He asks, and you’re not sure if he picks up the placard menu just to have something to do with his hands, or if he was genuinely browsing. “It's why you asked to meet.”

He chuckles to himself as though he’d told a funny joke, “Well, ‘asked’ is a bit of a stretch. Ominously demanded is more like. Very misleading, by the way.”

“You’re my client?” You’re still trying to process, and he raises his eyes from the menu to frown at you.

“Yes, I thought I made that clear. Keep up.”

You blink, and then take a deep breath, because if you just start wailing on him, you’d probably get kicked out. And arrested.

“Why would you hire me to hack into your own company?”

Seokjin lets out an almost disappointed sigh, “It was the fastest way to get an unvarnished security audit, wasn’t it?” He puts the menu aside, “Vionix is too porous. Anyone inside could be compromised. I needed proof of internal malice, delivered by someone with no allegiance to the name.”

A laugh bubbles its way up your throat before you can stop it, slipping past your lips with a shake of your shoulders. While you’re laughing it up, Seokjin looks decidedly unimpressed, leaning back into the soft leather cushions of the booth to watch you.

“I’m sorry...” you put up a hand and then smack it down against the polished table. The small, circular tabletop rattles a little, “I just have a hard time believing all of this.”

“Hm, well.” Seokjin begins, waving his hand as though your words and confusion was a mere fly. “I do cut a perfect picture, don’t I?”

He winks at you and now it’s your turn to look unimpressed. He shrugs when you don’t swoon, apparently, and then he taps a finger on the glossy menu.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

He shrugs again, and all he has to do is raise a hand and a server comes over hurriedly, “Suit yourself, then. Don’t complain to me when you’re thirsty after all the talking we’re gonna do.”

He orders a gin tonic...virgin. You don’t know why that shocks you more than anything you’ve found out tonight.

“So.” He begins, plucking the wedge of lime off the rim of the short glass. He sets it aside neatly on a napkin and sips at his drink, “Tell me what you really found on the servers.”

You take a deep, steadying breath, surveying the man across from you. A man, not as foolish as he makes himself to be for the public, who’s utterly oblivious to the immediate, visceral danger you’d discovered.

You dip your hand into the pocket of your jacket, pulling out the external drive that sits in its safe little pouch and slide it across the table. “It's all on there. I think internal malice is the least of your worries.”

“How so?” He carefully lifts the flap of the pouch and wiggles his fingers around inside, “A flash drive?”

“Does the names Han Doyun and Min Taejin mean anything to you?”

Seokjin chuckles, “Only that one is the Chairman of the Board, and the other is the Chief Financial Officer. They were both appointed by my father before he stepped down.” He says, narrowing his eyes slightly, but otherwise, doesn’t seem too bothered by your question. “They’ve been with me for years, and my father even longer. It's no secret that they want me gone.”

“They’re planning to have you killed.” You blurt out, and Seokjin’s hand pauses halfway lifting his glass to his mouth.

He looks past you for a second and then his eyes refocus, “...Really?”

He looks genuinely shocked, and for a moment, he loses the flippant arrogance he’d been displaying. He sets the glass down with a barely audible clink against the polished table. “I was expecting a coup or a cumulative voting, anything...”

He looks distressed now, a crease forming between his perfect brows. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows and he nods, more to himself, you notice, “What else?”

“The chat log was dated for a month and a half ago. They’re planning to do it at some high-profile event.” You knock your knuckles against the table, “They also talked something about a project. They’re know you’re working on something and they want it.”

“Is that all they said about it?” his very real death threat hanging above his head is seemingly forgotten, and he looks almost desperate when he asks. “The project?”

“No... they didn’t mention anything else. Just that it costs a lot and they think you’re ---”

“A fool?” He scoffs.

That was not what you were going to say...

Seokjin sighs and rubs his thumb against his plush bottom lip. He looks at you like he’s considering something, “That project is my life. It was my grandfather’s, then my father’s and now it’s mine. The kind of work it is...I would kill me out of curiosity to get my hands on it too.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Why are you telling me this?” you put your hands up, and look around, but you’re certain no one can hear your conversation over the club music, “I don’t want to be involved in...whatever this is!”

“Funny you’d say that---” There’s a sharp sound that whistles past your ear, and a hot, burning sensation that spreads from your earlobe to your cheek.

The kinetic privacy screen of the booth shatters into a thousand shimmering shards, the sound barely audible over the club’s bass but terrifyingly real. It rains over you in little black shards.

Seokjin lets out a ragged, guttural grunt of pain. His hand flies to his left shoulder, a sudden, blossoming shock of red staining the perfect white turtleneck. He hadn’t screamed, but the sound he made---pure, involuntary animal distress---was worse. He shoves the small table aside, collapsing toward you, his body a heavy, muscled weight of high fashion and rapidly failing adrenaline.

The second shot slams into the velvet cushion where your head had been moments before. Chaos erupts on the mezzanine; the club music drowned in a wave of raw, panicked screaming.

Blood, shockingly bright, was already soaking the shoulder of your denim jacket.

You don’t hesitate. Survival was a simple choice, and the variable currently contaminating your jacket with his blood was the one you had to move. You scramble to grab at the pouch on the ground, among the shards of black glass and shove it into your pocket. Getting to your feet, you shove aside a couple paralyzed with terror and, gripping Seokjin’s good arm, begin hauling the bulk of him off the leather seat of the ruined booth, dragging him toward the exit sign flashing red behind the decorative water feature.

He’s stumbling, leaning against you, his breathing shallow and rattling.

The exit door leads you to a hallway, the music in The Lumen had been cut off and all you can hear is the panicked screams of the patrons. The hallway stretches towards another exit, which spits you out on the opposite side of the carpark where your car is.

Seokjin is thankfully cooperative, his good arm slung over your shoulder, he’s holding most of his weight himself. Though, his steps are less than ideal.

You rush over to your car as quickly as you can, trying to not be distracted by the screaming, confused people coming out of the club in droves. You yank the car door open and get Seokjin inside, he slurs something to you as you buckle him in.

You slam the door shut, scramble around and into the driver’s seat, and shove the key into the ignition. The engine catches with a loud, protesting rumble and you barely give it time to warm up. You peel out of the parking space with a screech, forgetting about traffic and direction, caring only about the distance between the club and the life you were desperately trying to protect.

The scent of blood is instantly overwhelming. You risk a glance at the man slumped beside you. He’s clutching his shoulder, his skin pale and slick with sweat, but thankfully awake. You’re not sure how much longer that would be for, though.

You need to think. Think quickly!

You realise after a moment, that you’re just tearing down the street, and belatedly, a thought comes to mind: You can’t go home.

If someone saw you getting into this car with a very obviously injured and bleeding man, you could be followed. You’d lead them right home and put Jimin in danger.

“I can’t go home...I...I don’t know what to do.” You say, voice quiet, but your hands grip the steering wheel tightly. You take a breath and then another all too quickly, the speed gauge is just climbing. You frantically check your mirrors, voice pitching upwards in your panic, “What the fuck!”

You feel like your ears are suddenly filled with cotton and you can’t get a decent string of thought to settle. There’s a man actively bleeding out in your damn car, you have nowhere to go and he’s probably going to die before anything else, and you don’t know!

“Calm down!” Seokjin snaps, and you hear him over the ringing in your ears, “You need to calm down, or we’re both going to die.”

You glance at him, and he looks worse. He’s even more pale and the blood stain is eating up the white of his sweater even more. His breaths are shallow, and he isn’t putting enough pressure on that wound.

You ease your foot off the pedal, and the car slows marginally.

“What do I do?” you ask, staring straight ahead. You don’t know where you should go. “You need to get to a hospital.”

“No.” Seokjin grunts, “No hospitals.”

“You’re bleeding out!”

“Do you know the...” Seokjin closes his eyes and takes a couple breaths, and him not addressing your panic is probably best for the both of you, “the 312 Overpass?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Find Drayton Street. There’s a lock-up.” He’s very clearly trying to stay conscious long enough to tell you what he needs to. His voice is soft, and you can just barely catch his words, “You’re looking...for Kim... Namjoon. Doctor.”

His eyes flutters and his head give a little thump against the window. That wakes him a little, but it isn’t for long as his head then lolls forward.

“Oh god, are you dying?!” You cry, reaching your clammy hand over to smack sharply at his cheek, “Please don’t die in my car!”

His eyes blink warily open, and he lifts his head. He lets out a weak laugh, “Imagine...” he mumbles, “making this terrible upholstery worse?”

He blinks hard and winces as the wheels go over a speed bump. You maintain your speed, pushing the engine to its limit.

The streets here are darker, older, less patrolled by autonomous cars and flashing billboards. You roll the windows down a crack, hoping that the slight chill would help keep you calm or keep Seokjin awake a little longer. The air smell of damp concrete and neglect. You grip the wheel, your eyes constantly flicking between the road ahead and Seokjin.

“You’re...” He doesn’t open his eyes, just forces the air past his throat. “You could at least... tell me where we are. Or let your GPS handle the route.”

“It doesn’t have a GPS,” you snap, the cold necessity of the situation keeping your panic pinned down. “I use the old municipal grid.”

He lets out a slow, wet sigh that makes you flinch. “No GPS. Manual ignition. A person of your...talents,” he whispers, a thread of contempt pulling through the pain. “Should have access to something less likely to leave my blood all over the pavement.”

“My car is reliable,” you bite back, the defence automatic. “And it doesn’t log my routes. Unlike your fancy self-driving pods.”

“No logs,” he murmurs, his head lolling. “Admirable. But inefficient. You’re... you’re driving blind.”

“I’m using the old municipal grid maps,” you explain again, already running a mental trace on the 312 Overpass. “They’re rarely maintained, but they work.”

“Of course,” he manages, the sound laced with quiet disdain. “The only kind of map a rat would trust.”

“And the only kind that gets you out alive,” you retort, the exchange firing a small, necessary burst of focus into your brain.

His breathing hitches, and he goes quiet.

You wait for the next sarcastic critique, but it doesn’t come. You risk a full glance. The man is slumped against the door, his head pressed against the glass. The blood stain is vast and dark, and his skin is an alarming shade of grey under the intermittent streetlights. His eyes are closed, his face slack.

The absence of his voice is instantly more terrifying than the sound of the gunshot. Your hands, briefly warmed by the pointless argument, turn icy cold on the steering wheel.

“Hey,” You prompt, your voice tight, pulling your gaze from the road to check on him. “Seokjin!?”

No response.

“Fuck!”

He’s out. Completely passed out. The silence is deafening, broken only by the loud, protesting rumble of the engine.

A moment more and you finally spot the overpass; a monumental arch of forgotten infrastructure. You brake hard, slowing for the off-ramp into the industrial periphery. The area is dark, dominated by blocky warehouses and the shadows they cast. This is the old city limits.

You check the street signs---faded, chipped enamel signs that the city largely ignores now. Drayton Street.

You slow the coupe to a crawl, navigating the pitted asphalt. The air here smells stale, like old metal and industrial runoff. He had called it a “lock-up.” This implies secrecy, a hidden workshop, not a public facility. You scan the buildings---mostly blank, windowless walls, cheap composite metal siding, and heavy steel doors, all blending into one uniform line of neglect.

Why would a doctor be staying out here of all places? I mean, you’re not one to judge...much. But it is a strange place for a doctor to be in. You feel like you’d just wandered onto an old zombie movie set.

You have the nagging feeling that you’re running low on time, or that could just be your paranoia about Seokjin actually dying. So, you pull over on the dark street and kill the lights. You roll up the sleeve of your jacket and tap at the small screen of your Holowatch. Seokjin hadn’t told you exactly where to look, so you’re going to have to use your brain.

Holowatches are simple in design and can be used for pretty much anything. It was a walk in the park to modify to suit your needs, and despite not having the foresight to find yourself in this particular situation, you’re thankful, nonetheless.

The interface comes up dimly, casting a pale blue glow over most of the dark space. You do a comprehensive scan of the local grid. The initial results are useless; standard industrial drone recharge stations or dormant warehouse HVAC systems. This area is mostly offline.

You switch the search parameters, isolating the sector grid and filtering for indicators of an off-grid facility: Any unusual power consumption spikes would suggest high-end medical or research equipment. Or even archaic, segmented network traffic that would help you narrow it down.

The grid flickers in your display overlay. Most of the data remains quiet, but then a faint signature appears---a small, steady power draw coupled with a high-volume, highly encrypted data stream, localized to a single building about three blocks down the street. It’s a network running its own rules, completely divorced from the main city traffic. A strong, isolated line.

There.

You start your car up again and drive slowly down the pitted asphalt until you reach the building corresponding to the trace: a large, ugly steel-sided warehouse, indistinguishable from the others. No windows, no signs. The main door is a massive, bolted plate of reinforced steel.

You unbuckle your seatbelt and clamber out of the car. There’s an old ---ancient ---looking coms system set up beside the steel door. You clumsily press the button, and it buzzes loudly in the quiet. You wait impatiently for two minutes before pressing it again and holding it down for good measure.

There’s a click and the buzzing cuts short, and a groggy, sleep-filled voice crackles through.

“Yes?”

“Dr Kim? There’s an emergency.”

“S’it urgent?” the guy sounds about ready to fall asleep again.

You glance at the emergency passed out in your passenger seat, probably one foot through the pearly gates. “Yes.”

“Give me a minute.” The line crackles to death and you pace the short distance between your car and the door. Not three minutes had gone by when the steel door was lifting, rolling Its way up soundlessly.

You don’t really have much brain capacity to spare taking in the large expanse of room the door reveals. The good doctor takes up much of your vision anyways. He’s tall and powerfully built, dressed in soft cotton sweatpants and a thick, dark shirt, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His hair is tousled, and his features---mono-lidded, thoughtful eyes and a strong jaw---are currently dominated by sleepy annoyance at being woken at what’s probably two in the morning.

Then his eyes drop to the blood-soaked shoulder of your jacket but follow the length of your arm when you point to the car. “Seokjin told me to bring him here.”

That seems to wake him up, and suddenly he’s walking forward and peering into the window. He pulls the door open quickly, and curses, leaning in to unbuckle the belt and haul Seokjin and all his weight out.

He grunts with effort as he half carries, half drags Seokjin into the warehouse. “Bring your car in.” And then he disappears into a sectioned off area.

You do as you’re told, driving your car in and parking it, and then finding the switch to send the door back down.

The large steel door shuts with a heavy finality, severing your connection to the dangerous streets outside. The sound echoes in the cavernous space, replaced by a sudden, intense silence broken only by your strained breathing.

You stand for a moment, letting the silence settle the frantic ringing in your ears, finally taking in the vast expanse of the warehouse. It is surprisingly sterile and organized, a stark contrast to the grimy industrial exterior. The floor is smooth, polished concrete, segmented by strips of clear, directional LED lighting.

The main bay serves as a garage and staging area. Against one wall, a complex rack of server stacks and specialized equipment hums quietly, the source of the private network traffic you traced.

Your eyes sweep across the open space, and you see the true structure of the ‘lock-up.’ Running along the far side of the warehouse, nestled against the back wall, are three prefabricated modular offices, side-by-side. Boxy, functional structures built with matte panelling and large, continuous horizontal windows.

Namjoon disappeared into the central module. You walk toward it, drawn by the faint sound of rattling metal.

This central structure is clearly the working module. Its windows offer a glimpse inside, revealing a long, organized space. There are beds visible; simple, clean cots with monitoring equipment set up off to one side. Further down the room, through another internal partition, you can see the bright, focused light of the surgical zone where Namjoon is currently working.

Through the gauzy partition you can make out the leg of Seokjin’s pants, and you turn away, trying not to think too hard on it. You’re sure Seokjin wouldn’t have told you to come here if he didn’t trust this guy. You’re sure he knows what he’s doing, and you don’t have to worry about being hunted down by the police for essentially putting Kim fucking Seokjin right in the middle of a bear trap. Hahaha.

You try to focus on something else. The modules on either side are dark and silent. You can only speculate on their purpose, but their presence reinforces the feeling that this place is self-sufficient and entirely separate from the world outside. There’s a small, labelled plaque on the first one, PRIVATE, in little bold lettering.

The warehouse itself isn’t a large thing, might be a couple feet wider than yours and Jimin’s. You drag your feet back to your car to lean against the hood, the adrenaline that’s finally beginning to crash has you exhausted, or that just may be the fact you’ve been awake since the night before. You go to press the heel of your palm to your eyes, and spot the blood on your hand, already crusted and gone brown. Your other hand is miraculously clean of it, but your right hand has Seokjin’s blood under the fingernails. Your hands shake.

You almost got a man killed tonight. Never mind that, you almost died. That second bullet was obviously meant for the outlying variable. If you hadn’t told Seokjin to meet you there, he could’ve probably been partying it up somewhere right now.

Safe...maybe...and you could’ve been sleeping in your nice warm bed and Jimin would’ve crawled in by now like a kid that ‘frew up’ and refuse to leave. Safe.

No, you’re standing in the weird ass warehouse of some doctor you’ve never heard of all because you wanted to play hero. This was not the origin story you wanted to have! You really hope your canon event doesn’t sneak up on you. You don’t even know any Uncle Ben’s!

Maybe you should’ve taken that drink offer.

You let your hands fall listlessly to your lap and take a deep breath.

Soft footsteps make you raise your head, Namjoon has come out from the module, wiping his hands with a disposable wipe.

“He’s stable.” He says when he catches your gaze and tosses the wipe into a nearby bin. “Luckily, the bullet when straight through the muscle and missed everything. He’s lost a dangerous amount of blood though, so I’m giving him a transfusion. He’ll be fine.”

Why does he say that like Seokjin getting shot was some regular Friday occurrence? Does he have another secret mask to wear? A secret life, or something?! You can’t even handle the fact that he’s clearly not what everyone knows him to be...well, almost everyone. Either way! This is crazy enough.

He squints at you, “You’re injured.” He points at your cheek, and you raise your hand, fingers brushing against the dried crust of blood there. The bullet had whizzed past your ear, but it didn’t miss your cheek. You remember the sting of it when it grazed you.

“It’s nothing...” you dismiss, but Namjoon was already disappearing back into the centre module before he was out again with a first aid kit.

“I still have to clean it.” He says, laying the kit out on your car hood He cleans the wound with a sterile wipe, gently turning your cheek towards the light as he applies a gel antiseptic and a band-aid. “It’s superficial, wouldn’t leave a scar.”

Whoever took that shot is a damn good shoot to have only unintentionally grazed you.

“He’s lucky you were there.” Namjoon says softly, and the gratitude in his tone is oddly overwhelming. You only nod as he finishes putting things back into the kit. “I’m Kim Namjoon, are you a friend of his?”

You give him your name in a soft murmur, though you shake your head. You’re not sure how to answer that. Seokjin may trust him, but you don’t know zilch about the guy, so you don’t. You barely know what’s even happening anymore.

Namjoon doesn’t say anything about your lack of words, instead he smiles at you. Dimples sink into his cheeks, and you manage just half of one.

“When was the last time you slept?” his eyes dart between your own, a serious look on his face.

“Oh...um...”

He points over his shoulder to the centre module, “Beds are that way, you look exhausted.”

You turn, leaving the comforting presence of Namjoon for the cold, clinical safety of the warehouse. You cross the open garage floor and step into the central modular building.

The space is quiet now, the atmosphere heavy with the clean scent of antiseptic. Immediately to your left is the Observation Area.

Seokjin lies on the farthest cot, positioned against the back wall. He is stripped of the blood-soaked white turtleneck, covered by a sterile white blanket up to his chest. His shoulder is heavily bandaged, and an IV line runs from his arm to a stand where a blood bag hangs, steadily dripping life back into him. Nearby, a small heart monitor beeps rhythmically, a steady, reassuring sound that confirms his continued existence.

You move to the corner nearest the door, where a deep stainless-steel sink is positioned for general use before the surgical partition. You peel off your denim jacket; the fabric is stiff and heavy with dried blood. You drop it onto the clean floor without a second thought, the garment already a casualty of the night. You turn the tap on and thoroughly scrub your hands, chasing away the metallic tang of Seokjin’s blood that had dried beneath your fingernails. The water runs pink, then clear.

Relief is a sudden, dizzying wave. You choose the cot directly opposite Seokjin. You watch him for a moment---bandaged, pale, but breathing deeply and steadily. He looks like a high-end statue wrapped in linen, utterly unlike the man who was just thirty minutes ago gasping in the seat next to you.

The constant beep of the monitor is now the only sound accompanying your exhaustion. You shed your shoes, kicking them carelessly onto the floor, and sink onto the cot.

You close your eyes. The chaos of the gunshots, the screech of tires, and the metallic smell of blood fade, replaced by blessed silence.

Sleep claims you immediately.

When you wake its well past noon, you sit up in bed, rubbing at your eyes. The bed opposite you is empty, the blanket folded neatly at the end of it. As you swing your legs over the side of the bed, there’s a vibration at your wrist. Your holowatch lets out a soft beep, and when you raise your hand, you see the missed calls from Jimin and the one text he’d sent over an hour ago.

[Insp.Gadget]: you better be getting your back blown out for you to miss four calls >;( call me!!

You’d call him later, you promise. For now, you simply send him a text, so he knows you’re alive.

When you’ve woken enough, you’re a little more than embarrassed to remember you just dropped your jacket on the floor, but it isn’t there. You make your way out of the module to the main bay of the warehouse, where Namjoon moves in and out of the module on the left. There’re about two dozen brown boxes stacked neatly near a steel side door, and Seokjin is standing off to a corner, talking lowly.

He looks better, at least; showered and not covered in his own blood. Wearing a threadbare hoodie and sweats and thankfully doesn’t look like he’s on the brink of death. His arm is in a dark blue sling, held close to his chest and he gestures this way and that with his other hand.

Namjoon sets the last of his boxes down and straightens to his full height. He looks rather indignant about whatever they’re discussing, brows drawn together in a frown, jaw working.

Seokjin’s eyes flicker to yours and he goes quiet, and it causes Namjoon to turn to face you fully. He smiles at you, expression softening before he carries on with his work.

He eases open the side door, and it unlocks with a metallic clank. There’s a murmur of voices when it pushes open, and Namjoon quietly greets the waiting people outside. He hands out box after box, smiling all the while.

“He comes out here for two weeks every month.” Seokjin says, voice low, “He uses this space as a free clinic and support distribution for people who can’t afford it.”

This man must be some kind of angel, you think. There’s not many that would even look at the lower, struggling class, and here he is risking his security for the underprivileged. A mixture of respect and awe blooms in your chest as you watch him smiling and speaking softly to the owner of a pair of dirty young hands.

“Bathroom’s in there.” Seokjin says, effectively breaking your little awe-based spell. He points to the first module with the little private plaque on the door. “Namjoon put some clothes out for you.”

“Might have to roll the sleeves and pants a bit, though.” Namjoon nods his head, turning to you just slightly as he picks up another box.

“Have any of you seen my jacket?” You ask, pointing a finger over your shoulder.

“I threw it in the wash...it’s pretty much ruined now.” Namjoon says and then looks at Seokjin as though expecting him to say something. When he doesn’t answer, an exasperated look crosses the doctor’s face.

Seokjin looks at him, and then and you, and then rolls his eyes, “Sorry I bled all over you.”

Namjoon sighs loudly.

He’s seemed to have dropped whatever extra mask he was wearing last night when he came to meet you. The air of detached professionalism is gone, and he looks very much a spoilt brat with daddy’s money.

You don’t care about the jacket. You use the private module to wash up quickly, scrubbing the last vestiges of dried blood from your hairline, and then change into the track pants and Henley tee Namjoon left out for you. The clothes are soft and clean, and you do have to roll the sleeves and pant legs several times.

When you get out of the bathroom, Namjoon and Seokjin are both sitting in the small kitchenette space Namjoon has built into the far end of the module. The space is simple: a small table, three chairs, and a compact surface with a kettle and a few basic appliances. It’s an island of domestic calm. Namjoon offers you a cup of coffee with jam and toast, which you readily accept.

“So,” Namjoon starts, setting a black ceramic mug in front of you as he sits, “Gonna explain why she dragged your ass here at two am with a gunshot wound?”

“I might.” Seokjin says, scratching at his cheek with a finger, “It's a long story, though.”

“Not as long as you think.” You mutter into your mug.

Namjoon’s eyes dart between the both of you with an odd mix of confusion and amusement. He rummages around in his pocket and pull out the pouch you'd forgotten in your jacket. “What’s this?”

“A flash drive.” Seokjin says and you swiftly kick his shin under the table. A hiss of breath goes through his teeth and he leans down, rubbing his shin and glaring at you. “What was that for?”

“You’re being difficult.” You say as he straightens, “You realise your life is in danger? You were almost killed.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have been there if you hadn’t asked to meet me.”

“You have free will? You didn’t have to show up, asshole. Not to mention I saved your ass.”

Namjoon clears his throat loudly, “Can you both have your lover’s spat later?”

You and Seokjin share an equally disgusted look before turning back to Namjoon. Seokjin points at you with his good hand, and you both speak at the same time.

“Him?”

“Her?”

“I would rather put my bare ass on a hot stove.” Seokjin says indignantly and then shakes his head.

You make an offended sound, you’d not forgotten he’d essentially called you slow last night. “Like you’re a wonder to the world.”

“We’re getting off topic.” Namjoon knocks on the table between the both of you. He’s got that same disappointed father look Jimin puts on when you’re doing something he doesn’t think is a good thing. Except it’s somehow way more effective coming from him. You lean back into your chair, and Seokjin turns slightly away from you.

“Fine,” Seokjin concedes, the petulance draining out of his voice, replaced by a cold, sharp urgency. He leans back, the movement tightening the sling against his arm. “The reason I agreed to meet you---the reason I was shot...”

He gestures with his good hand toward the little black pouch Namjoon still holds. “That drive contains irrefutable evidence. Han Doyun and Min Taejin are planning an internal coup. They found out I was quietly liquidating my assets. They don’t just want me gone; they want me dead. That bullet was meant to secure their succession.”

You set your mug down, “Take the evidence, take the server logs, and go to the authorities! This is attempted murder by high-ranking executives.”

Namjoon nods immediately, his face serious. “She’s right, Jin. You bring the evidence to the police, you secure your safety, and they face life in prison. Why risk being on the run?”

Seokjin shakes his head, rubbing his forehead with his thumb. “You don’t understand. If I take this to the police, the investigation will make everything public. And if the world knows about the project... we’ll have a much bigger problem than two greedy executives.”

“What project?” Namjoon presses, holding up the pouch. “What is worth risking your life for?”

Seokjin stares down at the table, taking a breath. “My grandfather had an ambition---some called it foolish---of achieving human immortality through cybertronics. The project is called Axtaliah.”

He pauses, allowing the name to settle over the small kitchenette.

“Axtaliah,” he continues, “is essentially a way for humans to live forever. It’s a system where people could upload their consciousness---their entire mind, their sense of self---into a digital, persistent architecture. The body decays, but the consciousness and sense of self would remain. It works like an avatar; you can live within Axtaliah like you would in the real world.”

He looks at the disbelief hardening your expression, then back at Namjoon. “Axtaliah is designed to become a new Earth---a digital, permanent sanctuary.

Doyun and Taejin didn’t just want Vionix. They want Axtaliah. They want to control digital immortality. If I go to the police, that data goes public. And trust me, the corporate world fighting over trillions in assets is nothing compared to humanity fighting over eternal life."

You three sit in silence for a while, Namjoon had slid the flash drive back towards you.

“I’d hired Miss Pessimistic here to hack into my servers to gather intel. It was...a lot more than I was expecting.” He looks down at his hand, scratching at the corner of his index finger with the nail of his thumb.

Namjoon runs a hand through his hair, looking like this was a lot more than he was expecting, too. He nods, “What do you need?”

“Nothing more from you, Joon.” Seokjin smiles, it’s a more genuine one than the ones he’d given you, “It was risky enough to come here.”

“And her? She’s innocent in this; you can’t just drag her around.” Namjoon says, and you’re a little touched to see at least one person has some compassion.

“She’s not innocent.” Seokjin says, making a face, “She’s a hacker, you know? Literally committed a crime hacking into my servers.”

“You hired me to do that?! Hello?” You protest, slapping your hand down on the table.

Seokjin just shrugs, a careless movement that makes Namjoon wince in sympathy for his friend’s shoulder.

“She’s technically an accomplice now,” Seokjin continues, as if you aren’t sitting right there. “She knows the entire structure of the attack, she drove the getaway car, and she has the primary evidence on that drive. She’s in this as deep as I am, legally speaking.”

“That’s because you bled all over me and then passed out!” you shoot back, you think you sound rather childish, but so does he so you don’t care. “I was following your minimal instructions!”

Namjoon rubs the bridge of his nose, looking deeply regretting allowing either of you in the same room together. “She saved your life. You owe her a decision, Jin. A way out.”

Seokjin looks at you then, the annoying aloofness replaced by a flicker of respect that’s gone just as quickly as it appeared. “There is no ‘way out.’ Not unless I dismantle Axtaliah entirely, which I won’t do. I need help to move the core files and the prototype.”

He slides the drive back across the table, offering you not a job, but a choice.

You stare at it for a long moment before dragging your eyes up to meet his, “And what about your mole?”

He narrows his eyes at you and presses a hand against his chest, looking scandalized, “How do you know about those? I only have moles on my back.”

“No, you idiot...” you sigh, “the informant. Someone told Taejin and Doyun about that project. They got a tip from someone. And since it’s secret, I assume you have a selected few that know about it. Someone in your circle sold you out.”

He contemplates this for a moment, staring off into space. There’s something in his eyes that makes them look far away from here. Namjoon shares a glance with you and then he reaches for your empty mug and Seokjin’s.

“What’re you gonna do? You need a plan. Or...something.” Namjoon asks over the sound of flowing water, he washes the mugs and utensils and puts them neatly on a rack to dry.

Seokjin sighs, “For one, we can’t stay here.”

“We?”

“Yes, we.”

“You better mean the royal we. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You’re smarter than that, I’m sure.” There he goes again, calling you dumb. You glare at him, and he leans forward towards you, voice low, “You were shot at too, if you recall. And I distinctly remember you saying you can’t go home. I can assume there’s someone you don’t want involved in this.”

You aren’t responsible for your own life alone. This could’ve all been avoided if you minded your own damn business. A headache blooms at your temples.

“Fine.”

Within the hour, Namjoon had given Seokjin enough painkillers to take down a horse, and a light hug goodbye. While they discussed things quietly, you’d taken a moment to survey the damage done to your upholstery. You can’t exactly blame the guy for almost dying, so you just quietly give the old leather seats a wipe down.

You take a moment to let Jimin know you’d probably be out all weekend. Saying that your ‘date’ went well.

Namjoon had given you your jacket back, which is well unusable now. The blood had sunk deep into the denim and stayed there even after a wash. You just throw it in the backseat.

You shake Namjoon’s hand and thank him before getting into your car with Seokjin. The engine rumbles to life and you give Namjoon a little wave as you back out into the street.

“Where to?” You ask, as you drive out of Drayton Street and onto the main strip. You look at Seokjin, who’s currently wiggling his thumb between the strap of the seatbelt and his shoulder to alleviate the pressure.

He looks at you and then nods at your watch, “Does that have GPS?”

You roll your eyes, “What’s with you and GPS? If I put you out on the street, could you find your way home? Jesus.”

You activate the expand feature that projects the interface upwards. You realise belatedly you left your chat with Jimin open, but Seokjin gracefully doesn’t say a word. You open the GPS system and let him input the address of where he wants to go.

You stare at the map, “...That’s hours away.”

“Yes, and?”

“I don’t want to be stuck in here that long with you.” You say, and Seokjin rolls his eyes. You peer at your gauges, “And I have to stop for gas.”

“Really?” He shakes his head, “Why do you drive this bag of bolts around? Do people even sell diesel anymore?”

“Hey!” You exclaim, rubbing your hand along the dashboard, “Ignore him, baby, he’s loopy on pain meds.”

Seokjin huffs a laugh as you glare at him.

Road trip. Yay.

You’d have to stop at the nearest gas station, full up, probably get some crappy food and snacks and mentally prepare yourself for an hours’ long drive outside the city.

Staying on the old roads, you were lucky to find a gas station quick. And even luckier to find that it’s ran by an older gentleman who barely paid you mind.

“I’m gonna grab stuff.” You say, coming back to your car after paying for the gas. You lean down, “Do you even know how to manually fill up a tank?”

“What do I look like to you, hm?” Seokjin grumbles, then he slowly unbuckles the seatbelt. You feel kind of bad watching him do that, but then he gets out and scowls at you and it goes down the drain.

“Well, all those fancy drifters got internal batteries. I don’t expect you to know, Princess.”

He comes around the car and takes the gas nozzle off the holster.

“Righty tighty, lefty loosey.” You say, and his scowl deepens.

“I’ll hit you.”

“Mhm!” You walk backwards, laughing at him. You turn and walk through the automatic doors of the Quick Stop. The exterior is faded, cracked concrete, but inside is clean, cool, and lit by buzzing LEDs.

The older gentleman is behind a wide counter, leaning on a dull grey register terminal that looks like it hasn’t received a software update in a decade. He looks up briefly, nods, and goes back to polishing a small figurine.

You bypass the shelves of pre-packaged, brightly coloured synth-fibre bars and head straight for the hot counter. The gas station convenience store luckily offers a wide range of things to munch on, including readymade hot-dogs and miniature Hamburger Jr’s, kept perfectly warm inside a thermal dispensing unit. You grab a selection of savoury, processed snacks and load up on several bottles of water so that Seokjin doesn’t have to raw dog his pain meds cross country.

You bring your haul up to the counter. The old man patiently lifts each item, manually inputting the codes into the terminal. When he finishes, he holds up a small, flat card reader. You raise your wrist, and the reader beeps as you scan your watch to pay for the goods. Instead of plastic, a machine next to the terminal dispenses a flexible, reusable fabric mesh carry-bag. You quickly stuff your snacks and water into it.

You walk out, and Seokjin is thankfully back in the car waiting. At least he’s successfully filled up the tank.

“Congratulations.” You say, getting in the car and starting it again, “you successfully completed a manual fuelling process.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

You drop the bag of goodies in his lap, “Help yourself.”

Seokjin mumbles a quiet thanks and the rummages through the bag, he takes out a bottle of water and a granola bar as you peel out of the gas station.

It’s a couple moments of silence that prompts you to turn the radio on, and Seokjin, staring at the bottle in his hand. He grips the bottle firmly in his food hand, and twists at it with the fingers of his other. Nothing happens.

He tries again, applying more pressure, there’s a pained hiss and he stops immediately. Avoiding your gaze, he holds the bottle out to you.

“What’s the matter, did the cap win?” You ask, trying to sound bored, even as you reach over and easily twist the cap off the bottle. The seal snaps audibly.

“They over-torque these things.” He grumbles, but thanks you anyway.

“Do you need help opening that, too?”

He ends up opening the granola bar with his teeth. Where Seokjin wants to go is about a four-hour drive, should just be about sundown when you get there. On the map it’s a secluded, private property, so it doesn’t really give much.

The radio hums softly, a newer song of techno-beats that scatters under the backdrop of wind in your ears. Seokjin had complained about your choice of snacks but opened a bag of chips anyway.

“You know.” He says through a mouthful, the wind sends his hair fluttering across his forehead, “I never asked for your name.”

You raise a brow, glancing at him, “Didn’t ask Namjoon?”

“You two are on a first name basis now?”

Both your brows go up at his tone, and in the moment, you chuckle because it reminded you of those ancient memes about Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande. “Does that matter?”

He shrugs his good shoulder, “Not really, but I can’t just call you ‘Shade’. Who came up with that, a twelve-year-old?”

“Actually, yes, I was twelve and it sounded cool at the time.” Seokjin laughs and you can’t find it in you to be offended, so you laugh too, giving him your name.

“I’ve got a question.” You venture, when you’d stopped giggling, he nods and you continue, “Was that your first time hiring a hacker?”

“What gave it away?”

“‘I require your services’” You say, doing your best to mimic the timber of his voice, “Who talks like that?”

“I was nervous!” he laughs, shifting in his seat. There’s a quiet wince in his expression and then he quiets. There’s probably a lot on his mind and you don’t blame him for being lost in his own head.

By the time you make it out on the old highway, it’s just about three pm. There’s nothing but road, and the radio that’s filling the thankfully not awkward silence.

With his head laying comfortably against the headrest of the passenger seat, Seokjin turns to you. You catch the movement from the corner of your eye, the way he stares at you just long enough for to you wonder what he’s thinking about.

“Can I ask you something?” He mutters, still staring at you.

You have a feeling you know where this is going to go, and you’re already uncomfortable, flexing your suddenly clammy fingers against the steering wheel. “Sure.”

“You didn’t have to tell me anything.” He says, and then finally looks away, staring straight ahead and then down at his lap, “You could’ve taken the money and pretended like you didn’t see anything at all.”

There it is!

“Yeah, well...” You make a face, “I have a conscience. It’s nothing to do with you.”

He studies you for a long while and then chuckles, nodding his head, “Under all that cynicism, you’re not half bad. Nice, even.”

“Oh, really?” You say with mock astonishment, “Thanks, I’m honoured. It’s almost like I’m a decent human being.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t go that far.” Seokjin laughs, “You are a hacker, after all, so that’s debatable.”

“Not all of us are criminals. I’ve known people who’s done far worse than me. And with the things I’ve done, you’d be surprised how low the bar is.”

“Thank you...for saving my life.” He says softly, leaning forward trying to catch your gaze. You turn your head just to avoid him straining his wound. The genuine gratitude in his eyes curls around your chest and you’re not sure what to do with it. “And I’m sorry for dragging you into this mess.”

“It’s...it’s fine.” You are... terrible at this. It’s a wonder you don’t shrink away from the sunlight; you’re like a gremlin that’s never had any human interaction. “Uh, you’re welcome.”

“Okay, I’ve another question.” You try your best to spin the bottle, turning the vibe back on him to avoid the awkwardness you’re feeling. Seokjin reaches into the glove box, pulling out the bottle of painkillers Namjoon had given him. “What’s with all of that, anyway?”

He tosses two of the pills into his mouth and chases them with water, “What?” he points at himself and tilts his head.

“You.” You gesture with a hand, “do you have any idea how the public sees you?”

“Why should I care how the people perceive me?” He retorts, and for a moment, seem to think his words over. He sighs, shaking his head, “When you give someone nothing, they expect nothing of you. By making everyone think I’m a spoilt brat hopped up on nepotism with not a thought in my head I was able to get this far.”

He looks out the window, his eyes far away, “I don’t enjoy drinking or partying. Believe it or not, I’m actually an introvert. I just don’t like making people uncomfortable.” He shrugs, “I did what I had to do to continue my father’s work in secret, but acting like an idiot can only get me so far, I suppose.”

“Huh.” You say, because, well...what do you say to that? Seokjin slowly turns to look at you, and at his expression you can do nothing but laugh, “That was a way more depressing answer than I thought it’d be.”

“What, did you think I liked having my name slandered every week?”

“Well, you didn’t look like it bothered you all that much to be honest.” You wince, and then, “But I’m no longer ignorant, so...um, tough?”

“Remind me to never ask you for comfort.” Seokjin shakes his head, an amused smile in his eyes, “I think your attempt would hurt me a lot more.”

You share a laugh.

“I’ve got another question.”

“Damn, what is this, twenty questions?”

“You started it. I’m just playing along.” Seokjin runs his thumb along the wrapper of the water bottle, “I’m curious.”

“That’s dangerous.” You chuckle, shifting in your seat because you can feel a cramp starting. Maybe you should stop and stretch your legs.

Seokjin chuckles too, “Why are you a hacker? You can be... more...with what you can do.”

“I don’t do much...” you deflect.

“It takes a lot of skill to hack into Vionix’s servers and all without activating the security protocols. Anyone else would’ve been arrested in twenty-four hours.”

“I never said I wasn’t good at what I do.” You chuckle but sober up pretty quickly as the next set of words tumble out of your mouth without your consent. “Some people start hacking for whatever nefarious reasons they could muster. And some people do it because they had nothing else.”

“Which is yours?”

“I had nothing going for me, that’s all. Nothing to lose and only one thing keeping me going. I wanted better and the world couldn’t give it, so I took.” Your smile doesn’t feel very genuine and paired with the clamminess of your palms and the sinking feeling in your stomach, Seokjin knows it isn’t.

You shrug a shoulder, “Turned out all right, so. Nothing to cry over. It’s more of a hobby than a need.” You wave a hand, “My life’s loads better for a kid from the slums, got nothing to complain about.”

“Hm.” Seokjin hums, “I suppose that’s pretty valid.”

“Yeah, I guess?” You laugh, “for what it’s worth, though...I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

Seokjin presses his good hand against his chest, “Is that a compliment? Was there something in that hot dog?”

“Har-Har.”

An hour later you’ve shifted in your seat one too many times, and your back is starting to hurt. Seokjin is dozing off against the window but opened his eyes when you tap his arm.

“I’m pulling over.”

“What? Why?”

“My back is hurting, and I’ll be damned if I let a cramp take me out.” You slow the car to a crawl before it stops completely. Opening your door you unbuckle and get out, groaning as you stand. “Oh, thank fuck!”

Seokjin is more careful getting out the car, mindful of his sling. His head pops up on the other side and through squinted eyes he peers at you. “I need to pee.”

Halfway between stretching your arms out you glance around, “What’d you want me to do? Cup my hands? Find a bush.”

Seokjin looks around and then back at you with a pointed look, “See any bushes around here? You might as well.”

“Then stick your dick in a bottle.”

It seems like the air in the car was loaded with something, because you’re both right back at it as soon as you get fresh air.

He stomps his way across the road, and you turn around, leaning your back against the car door, “Watch for snakes! I’m not sucking your dick to save your life.”

“Fuck off.” He calls, but there’s no real heat behind it.

By the time the sun was a molten ball sinking beyond the distant horizon, you finally pull off the highway and onto a suspiciously maintained sprawl of asphalt.

Your watch beeps, and at a glance, it’s Jimin replying to your text from hours ago with a string of wild emojis. And then:

[insp Gadget]: How good is that dicc?!? You’ll be gone ALL weekend? 👀 Use protection!!!

Still call me tho!!

You cover the watch face to disable the projection, but Seokjin apparently can’t let it slide this time.

“Your friend?” He snorts but tries to cover it with a cough.

Mortified you press your lips together and nod. Seokjin chuckles but says nothing more, instead, he directs you down another paved road. And it’s only a short distance away a steel gate blocks most of the road.

“Slow down.” He says and as you do, he unbuckles the seatbelt and awkwardly turns to stick his right hand out the window. From a non-descript corner, a small, round drone floats down silently and scans his palm with a blue glow. It flashes green and gives a little beep before it floats back from where it came and the gate slides open. “Bio-drone.”

You drive up and over a little ramp onto a smooth gravel road. The landscape that expands before you is almost jaw dropping. You expected a house, but this is a whole damn estate, you’re pretty sure.

On either side of the road is neatly trimmed grass, all leading up to a dense, private forest that completely seals the property off from the outside world. This isn’t just a perimeter fence; it’s a strategically planted, towering wall of native hardwoods and evergreen foliage, maintained to military precision. The trees aren’t haphazard; they look deliberately spaced, creating a natural sound and sight barrier designed to absorb all traces of the complex within.

The road itself winds lazily, paved with a dark aggregate that absorbs light, hinting that the property continues far deeper than you can see. There are no signs, no mailboxes, and no visible power lines---everything is buried and reinforced.

As you follow the curve of the drive, the land opens up slightly. You see glimpses of a small, clear reservoir reflecting the rapidly darkening sky. Every patch of grass is impossibly green, every tree perfectly pruned. The quiet is total, broken only by the crunch of your tires on the fine gravel---a sound that’s almost too loud in this vast, secluded space.

The architecture of the landscape tells you that security was the first priority. You realize there isn’t a single spot on this sprawling land where a car could accidentally veer off the path or where someone could easily slip unnoticed through the boundary trees.

The final stretch of the drive leads up to a wide plateau where the main residence finally comes into view. The house is a low-slung, multi-winged structure built from black slate and enormous panels of tinted, reflective glass, making it look less like a home and more like a high-end, stealth bunker designed to vanish into the night.

You pull into the garage, the automated door raises, and you pull up next to what’s most definitely a vintage 1968 Ford Mustang. It’s covered by a clear tarp, which has a layer of dust like the thing hasn’t been touched in years.

You cut the engine and point at it, “You were shit talking my baby this whole time!”

Seokjin sighs like he was expecting your outburst, as he unbuckles the seatbelt and climbs out. He grabs the bag of empty water bottles and snacks wrappers. The garage door comes down behind your car and for a moment it’s dark until lights blink on.

You clamber out the car, walking around the front to get a closer look, “This thing’s ancient.”

“It was my great-grandfather’s.” He grabs you by the elbow and steers you away, “You can gawk at it later.”

He leads you towards a door and places his hand against a scanner. For the second time his palm is scanned and the door unlocks. You suppose it’s fair, being this rich and famous one much have a precaution or two.

The door opens and he lets you go in first, there’s a short hallway and another door that leads to what must be the largest living room you’ve ever seen.

The space is colossal, the walls of floor-to-ceiling glass presenting a breath taking, uninterrupted panoramic view of the dark forest and the reservoir reflecting the last, fiery streaks of sunset. The ceiling is extraordinarily high, giving the room an almost cathedral-like feel, yet the precise integration of dark, raw-cut stone and vast panels of matte black slate somehow prevents it from feeling cold.

The floor is seamless, wide-planked dark wood, polished to a mirror shine, leading the eye out to the wilderness. The furniture is sparse and low-profile, strategically placed to maximize the view. A massive, sectional sofa, upholstered in thick, oyster-grey fabric, curves around a central feature---a suspended, cantilevered fireplace---a flat, rectangular slab of polished metal that floats several feet off the ground, emitting silent, odorless heat.

Along one side wall, you notice a section of glass looking in on a climate-controlled server room---a glowing, humming technological heart encased in smoked glass. This is clearly the control center of the entire property. Beyond the main living area, an open-concept kitchen features a massive island counter made of a single slab of white quartz. All the high-end appliances---induction cooktops, thermal ovens, chilling units---are fully recessed behind panels of dark, custom cabinetry.

The entire house is silent, and smells faintly of purified air and expensive cedar---a deep, luxurious quiet that speaks of insulation and absolute privacy.

There’s very clearly a stark difference between being born into money and having to roll around in mud to get it. You’re no stranger to wealth, but this...this is something else.

“Wow...” you mumble, gazing around.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” Seokjin says, coming up behind you.

“I never want to hear that word come out your mouth ever again.” You say, laughing a little in disbelief.

Seokjin laughs almost bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck. “Make yourself comfortable...” he says and then, pulls at the collar of his borrowed hoodie. He peers down the hoodie, “I think I aggravated my stitches.”

He walks through the living room, and towards a flight of stairs, “Guest rooms are, uh, that way...” he leans over the banister and points to a hall straight ahead of you, “I’ll be back.”

He goes up the stairs and disappears, and you go towards where he pointed. The doors are seamless panels of matte wood. You choose the first one, which opens onto a large, minimalist room. The bed is huge, the bedding impossibly white, and a wall of glass offers a private view of the darkening woods. The attached bathroom is all pristine white marble and brushed metal; a rain shower, a soaking tub, and a vanity counter.

After everything you’ve been through you think a nice, hot shower would be heavenly. After you almost trip on the leg of the pants you realise you don’t have any fresh clothes.

You look down at yourself, and figure Namjoon’s Henley covered more than enough. You’re no blushing virgin and neither is Seokjin, you’re sure. You kick the pants against the wall and walk back out the room and towards the staircase Seokjin went up.

The second floor appears to be his private domain. You find a half-open door leading into what must be his master suite, drawn by a soft, rhythmic snip-snip sound.

“Seokjin?” you call out softly, approaching the doorway.

He is inside a large, luxurious, all-marble bathroom. He’s standing in front of a wide mirror over a double vanity, shirtless. The bright, white LED lighting overhead illuminates the room perfectly. He’s using a pair of surgical shears in his good hand to carefully snip away the adhesive from the old self-sticking wound covering.

He stops the snipping, turning his head slightly to acknowledge you. He registers the borrowed shirt you’re wearing, which hangs loose on your frame, but his expression remains perfectly neutral. There is no flicker of surprise, just a flat, focused gaze.

“Don’t sneak up on me,” he says, his voice tight with concentration as he carefully peels away the last piece of dressing.

“Sorry,” you manage. “I need fresh clothes.”

Seokjin turns, facing you fully, holding the soiled bandage loosely in his hand. He points with his chin to a built-in wall of dark, sleek cabinetry. “Take anything from the second drawer on the left. There might be pants with a drawstring in there somewhere.”

You walk toward the cabinetry, acutely aware of the expanse of his bare chest and the fresh, taut stitches visible on his shoulder. You pull out a simple, incredibly soft, dark grey tee and dark purple soft cotton pants that looks like the bottom of a pyjama set ---they smells faintly of him.

“While you’re here,” he says, his voice losing its playful edge, “could you help me with this? The exit wound is impossible to reach.” He gestures to a tube of antibiotic ointment and a roll of sterile gauze on the counter.

You place your newly acquired clothes on a velvet bench. You approach the vanity, and as you step into the bright light of the bathroom, you’re suddenly close.

You take the tube and gauze. His uninjured back is to you, offering a clear view of the stitched exit wound. As you apply the cool, slick ointment to the angry red circumference, you notice something else in the unforgiving white light. Just beneath his ear, and another faint spot near the hinge of his jaw.

“I thought you only had moles on your back,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, surprised by the softness of the sound. You press your lips together.

Seokjin slightly turns his head, the movement tight, surprised by the comment. “You have a couple on your face.”

“They’re not as noticeable,” he says, equally soft, as though speaking any louder would break whatever this is. He turns slowly, and then leans into your space, much like he did at The Lumen, except this time he’s shirtless, the warmth of his skin radiating outwards. He opens a cabinet over your head and pulls away with a soft chuckle through his nose.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No...” Your voice is a lot more...breathless than you intended, but he doesn’t mention that either. You suddenly feel like a Victorian man seeing ankles for the first time. Trying to stare at anything but the wide expanse of his chest, you clear your throat and step sideways. “Need anything else?”

“Yes, actually.”

You help him reapply the covering to the back of his shoulder and then he’ll him carefully bandage his shoulder again. He thanks you softly, and you escape back to the guest room downstairs as he gets into his tee-shirt.

By the time you were showered and in fresh clothes, Seokjin was back downstairs when you walked out. It’s just about seven and he’s looming by the window.

“You good?” you call, pausing just short of turning into the living room.

He turns at the sound of your voice, you realise he’s also showered and changed. “M’fine.” He smiles faintly, and then, “I’d like the flash drive, though.”

You fish it out of the pocket of your pants and walk over to the coffee table to set it down.

“Are you hungry? I can make something...”

You stare at his arm, back in its sling, and then back at him with a raised brow. “You’re a walking hazard.”

He chuckles, “Can you cook?”

“I can boil water for ramen...”

Seokjin laughs, a high sound that makes you laugh, too.

“Ramen it is, then.”

Unexpectedly, Seokjin had all sorts of ramen brands in his pantry. He’d explained that he doesn’t come here often and it’s only there for when he doesn’t feel like cooking something. So, you make a couple packs, and spruce it up with some eggs and kimchi.

You both just stand around in the kitchen eating it from the pot.

There’s a comfortable silence that’s broken by the slurping of noodles, and both your hums about how good it is.

“It’s been a while since I had instant ramen.” Seokjin sighs, chewing a mouthful. A stray droplet of broth goes down his chin, which he wipes at with a hand.

You honestly don’t know how you’re not sick of instant ramen by now. There’s a reason why Jimin complains every time you walk into your own kitchen.

Now that things are in a state of relative calm, you’re left to wonder, what now? You’re sure Seokjin has some sort of plan, but between the drive and getting here, he’s said absolutely nothing about anything.

When dinner was over, Seokjin had sauntered his way back to the living room to brood some more, and you go back to your room and crawl into bed. You really hope he has a plan for all of this.

Sunday comes and goes without any fanfare. Surprisingly every social media outlet is quiet. You’d thought that a shooting at a popular club would warrant some sort of public unrest, but there’s absolutely nothing on it. No talks about an investigation, no word on if anyone else was injured, no word on Seokjin even being there.

You find that odd, and you say as much to Seokjin when it was late into the night. He’s sat on the couch; a pair of thin framed glasses perched on his nose as he reads through the contents on the flash drive. He’s been frowning for the better half of fifteen minutes, staring at his laptop screen, silent as you ramble on about the implications of media silence.

“Do you think your guys paid the club owner off to keep quiet?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them.” Seokjin mumbles, barely paying you mind. His shoulders are tense, and the sigh he lets out doesn’t seem to loosen them one bit.

He suddenly unplugs the flash drive and then looks up at you, a seriousness to his gaze. “My team of trusted individuals is small. Even smaller if we’re talking about the ones that work with me.”

He says this softly, looking away from you to gaze at the fireplace. “They’re people that I’ve trusted with the knowledge of my life’s work.”

There’s something in his gaze, as though he’d finally come to some great acceptance. His brows furrow, troubled, and then he’s quiet again, so you push.

“Do you have an idea of who it is? The mole.”

Seokjin leans back against the couch, and nods. “I didn’t want to be rash and point fingers, because these are people that I’ve trusted for so long, the the idea of them doing something like this is hard to digest.”

He sighs softly, tilting his head.

“The conversations on this drive,” he continues, nodding toward the laptop, “they confirm the murder plot, and they confirm that Taejin and Doyun were tipped off about Axtaliah. The person Taejin mentions can only be Hoseok.”

Seokjin looks pained as he says this, as though saying the name stabs at him. The name sounds familiar to you, but it’s like trying to remember a dream you had when you were nine. He reaches up and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the small motion betraying his exhaustion.

“He’s my creative lead, and partner on this project. What my grandfather had was just an idea. It was barely even a dream. My father made it into something that we could work with. I was the one who pushed it forward, because my father made it my ambition. Hoseok and I... We designed Axtaliah together. He knows everything.”

His voice drops to a near whisper. In the glow of the laptop light, you can see the sadness in his eyes. “I’m closer to him than anyone else on the team. We were supposed to unveil this project together. I told him that I would be at Lumen on Friday. He would have known exactly where to send the assassins.”

Seokjin slowly closes the laptop, his eyes haunted. “He’s not just a trusted employee, Y/n. He was my best friend.”

You watch the haunted look settle deep in his eyes, the high-tech brilliance of the house fading under the weight of his grief. You feel the familiar reluctance to intrude on private pain but seeing him this exposed---wounded and betrayed by the person he trusted most---stops the cynical comeback forming on your tongue.

You clear your throat, staring intently at the pattern of the huge, expensive rug. “That’s...”

You pause, choosing your words carefully. You walk around the coffee table and stand near the arm of the couch, close enough to be present without invading his space.

Jimin had always said you had a very particular issue; the inability to truly express comfort towards others. You aren’t a sociopath by any means, frankly, that assessment is a bit harsh even if Jimin jokes about it sometimes. It makes you uncomfortable when people have such vivid emotions, not because you’re incapable of understanding them, but because it puts you in a position where you have to extend a gentle hand. You have to say a nice thing, sympathise, look beyond your own discomfort to comfort. You don’t blame anyone for their emotions, never that.

You think it comes from all the years of it just being you and Jimin. You had yourself and him to look out for and nothing else. You’ve learnt young that people don’t care and you shouldn’t expect folks to pick you up when you stumble and fall. You pick yourself up. That’s that.

You feel like you’re mentally monologuing, and you’ve been silent for too long. This moment isn’t even about you. Seokjin is very clearly in distress, though he’s trying to hide it and hides it well. But you aren’t so removed that you’d simply let him do it alone. You pick yourself up, and sometimes, you try to pick others up too.

“I’m really sorry.” You say quietly. The words feel impossibly small, and you feel like nothing you can offer now would erase the hurt painting his visage. It lines the curve of his spine as he hunches forward, just narrowly missing the frame of his glasses as his head falls into his palm. It feels like a private moment you shouldn’t be standing around for.

Kim Seokjin, for all his intelligence and façades, looks like a small child dealing with something way greater than his hands can hold.

He had curated his image so well that you, previously a part of the general public, the outliner, saw what he allowed to be perceived. But here he is now, just a man, with ambitions and a sense of self, just like everyone else, having everything stripped away one after the other.

You hated the sincerity, but you didn’t retract it. You can’t imagine what he’s feeling right now.

He doesn’t acknowledge the apology with a nod or a word, still staring at the fireplace, grappling with the betrayal.

“I don’t understand it,” he finally murmurs, shaking his head. “If he wanted the recognition, he could have had it. We were going to share the credit for Axtaliah. The money is irrelevant to him; he’s already a millionaire from his own family’s patents. He’s not jealous of my status---he hates the public side of it almost as much as I do.”

Seokjin turns to you, the confusion plain in his eyes. “I’ve been trying to find a motive that fits the crime, anything at all, but come up empty. Why risk everything just to hand a life-saving project over to a pair of executives who only care about weaponizing it? It makes no sense.”

He runs his thumb along the smooth curve of the laptop case. “I have to assume he thinks he’s doing the right thing, or that he has some kind of leverage against Taejin and Doyun. But to betray me like this... I just don’t know.”

You nod slowly; the name finally lights a bulb in your brain. “Hoseok... wait. Jung Hoseok? The one with the robotics company his father founded?”

“The very same.” Seokjin runs his hand through his hair; the strands stick up before falling perfectly back into place. He takes his glasses off, setting them down on the table.

You worry at your bottom lip. There’s no way for you to say your next words without possibly making Seokjin feel worse. But you try gently, anyway, “He must know what’s going on. He’s your best friend, right? Doesn’t he at least care about your life and what happens to you?”

Sure enough, Seokjin looks even more pained. He leans his head back, staring up at the ceiling as though it would offer some sort of consultation. His eyes look glassy.

“I don’t know.”

Your heart genuinely breaks for him, but you’re not sure what to do. By the time you’ve formulated some sort of action, he’s decided he’s done with the conversation.

He leans his head to look at you, “You should get some rest. It’s late.”

“What am I, five?” comes your natural, involuntary response. Curse your speak first, think later system. You realise that Seokjin wants to be alone to process all his worries and you snap your mouth shut, wincing, “Sorry.”

He doesn’t seem to mind it or take it to heart. Honestly, it’s a bit scary that he’s seemed to have developed a certain understanding of you. Or maybe right now his mind is too muddled with everything else on his plate he doesn’t have a spare brain cell to analyse you.

The latter is safer.

He offers a mirthless smile as you pass by, and you ignore the little voice in the back of your mind saying you should stay with him anyway.

“Goodnight.” He says softly, still staring at the spot you’d vacated, he doesn’t turn to look at you.

“Night.”

It was much later when you ventured out again. Your watch said it was about two in the morning, as you drag yourself to the kitchen in search of water.

Seokjin was still in the living room, though, he was sleeping. Peeking at him over the back of the couch tells you everything. In the dim glow of the led lights, you can very clearly see he’s been crying.

There’s a furrow to his brow even as he sleeps, and the red, blotchiness to his face and around his eyes.

You walk back to your room and bring back one of the spare blankets in the cupboards. He doesn’t stir when you gently tuck it around him, but the furrow in his brow does smoothen out.

You feel a little bit like a creep just staring at him sleep, and you don’t know why you brush the soft strands of his bangs away from his eyes. He murmurs something unintelligible, shifting a little into your touch.

If this were a story, or a silly fanfic those kids are into these days, this moment would be a golden step in a plot line. But you just feel kind of bad you hadn’t stayed with him earlier when he clearly needed someone. But he was also the one to tell you to leave, and you respected that so there’s really nothing else.

You wonder if non-buzzing bugs ever grow tired of ones that do. You imagine, having a constant noise maker in your vicinity would drive about anyone crazy.

You feel like you’re waking from a strange dream, burrowed tee-shirt halfway up your midriff, leg hanging off the edge of the bed, and lord knows where the blanket’s gone.

Your eyes peel open. It’s still dark outside, the sky showing just the barest hint that dawn was on the way.

The annoying buzzing your brain is struggling to comprehend stops, and your eyes sluggishly blink slip close. But it’s starts up again, vibrating along the surface of the bedside table, is your watch.

For a moment you simply watch it, watching the way it slightly slides along the wood. It stops again and immediately starts back up.

With a sigh, you reach out and grab it. Holding it by the band, you squint at it in the dark.

Jimin is calling. And by the looks of it, you’ve missed his other seven.

You tap on the screen, and the projection interface pops up. Jimin’s contact flashes in red, insistent, and you finally pick up.

“Mimi, what? It’s the ass crack of dawn.” You croak sleepily, eyes closing again.

You expected him to be yelling at you, complaining about you missing so many of his calls, but he’s eerily silent. So silent that you unbutton your eyes to see if the call was connected. It is, the little numbers ticking upwards, but the voice line is one flat thing.

“Jimin.” You call.

“Where are you?”

His tone seems off, something you’ve only heard twice in your life and never directed at you. It wakes you up a little.

“I’m at my date’s place, I stayed the weekend, I told you.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Y/n.”

Wow, okay. Government name. You’re in trouble.

There’s a beep and Jimin’s requesting a video call. Sitting up now, you accept. It’s dark at first, and then you spot the light of your kitchen and then he turns. There’s a murmur of sound in the background that grows louder:

“... isn’t anything bizarre, as the CEO of Vionix is known to have even weeklong vanishes. I think he’s not doing anything out of the ordinary....”

The local news is the only light in the living room, and for a moment, you have no idea what you’re looking at. The news anchor, sharply dressed and too wide awake for the hour, stares into your soul. He and his co-anchor share a look and a knowing smile.

“But just an hour ago his company had put out notice of his disappearance ---a first. He was last seen entering The Lumen at 11:30 on Friday night and eyewitness claims he left the downtown club with this unidentified female sometime after one.”

There, on the screen, is clearly a still picture of you. With the angle, it’s impossible to see your face, but that’s your jacket, and your gait, and the club lights shining on your hair. It was just when you walked out of the carpark and turned towards the entrance of the club. It occurs to you that they haven’t said anything about a shooting.

“I don’t know, Tyler, it seems like Seokjin is doing what every young man that has his amount of money would. It’s a bit rash to say that he’s missing considering his history.” The other anchor says, shaking his head, “Friday night benders, we all had those days! Some say it’s an invasion of privacy for his partner, whom he was last seen with...” he turns to look at Tyler with a smile as he adjusts his earpiece, “in other news: The government is looking into passing anti-violence against android laws...”

Jimin walks back to the kitchen. He looks like he’d just woken up, too, but not as rudely awakened as you. His eyes are puffy -----and confused, and angry all at once -----his eyebrows are so tightly knit you fear he’d get a headache soon.

“Why the fuck are you on the news? In a broadcast about Kim fucking Seokjin being missing?!” Jimin all but shouts, gesturing wildly at the TV. “And don’t lie to me! I’ll track your watch and hunt you down, I swear to God!”

Your head hurts.

“Jimin...” you call, trying to be heard over his angry rant about tracking your watch. “Jimin! Listen to me.”

You close your eyes for a moment, taking a breath, “I know what this looks like. But you have to trust me, okay? I’m safe, I promise. Everything’s fine.”

Jimin stares at you, and you can see the thought in his eyes before he says anything, “It was the job, wasn’t it?” When you don’t answer, his head falls back in a show of pure exasperation, “Y/n, I fucking told you -----oh my god. You never listen to me.”

“I know. I know.”

“You told me you were going on a date.” He continues, and then he’s out of view of his own watch and you watch the walls swing by and the shift in lighting. There’s clicking, and the sound of his fingers on your keyboard, “Your location is blocked. Where are you?”

“Jimin, please.” He comes back into frame and now he just looks worried on top of it all. “Yes, okay. I got myself into trouble, and I can’t tell you anything, but you have to trust me, okay? Please?”

The anger drains from his eyes, and you can see his shoulders drop. He presses his fingers against his eyes, “Of course I fucking trust you, Birdie. You...” he sighs heavily, “I should’ve known something was up when you didn’t answer my calls on Saturday.” He shakes his head, stares forward, the glow of your computer screen lighting his face. “Can you just...tell me where you are? Are you safe?”

“I can’t tell you, no. But I’m safe, I promise.”

He stares at you skeptically, as if waiting for you to change your mind and say that you’ve been the one kidnapped and is being held hostage.

He opens his mouth again, but there’s a knock on your door. A very deliberate tap-tap. Like a bird, your head swivel towards the sound. “Who’s that?”

“It’s---”

The door opens and Seokjin comes into the room without much prompt. He’s dressed in fresh, dark sweats and a tee. He looks significantly better than he did last night, though his expression is sharp and alert---he’s clearly seen the news report, or Namjoon has called him.

Seokjin walks right up to the bed, gently taking your wrist and turning your holowatch interface toward him. You’re stretching a little awkwardly over the space to reach him.

“Y/n is perfectly safe,” he reassures, “if you like I can contact you, I’ll explain everything myself.”

“Well, someone has to.”

Seokjin nods, “I’ll be in touch.” And before Jimin can say anything more, he promptly ends the connection.

You pull your hand back, frowning, there’s a bit of genuine anger at him inserting himself into your conversation like that. “Why did you tell him you’d explain? I don’t want him involved.”

“Well...” Seokjin rubs at the back of his neck, “I don’t think you’d have been able to stop him anyway...he’s going to get involved one way or another.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to---’ you take a breath and look away; he has the decency to look at least a bit ashamed. “What do you want?”

“Do you...wanna get changed first?”

You take a while getting ready out of spite, still a little upset at Seokjin for cutting off Jimin and involving him. When you finally traipse your way out into the living room, Seokjin is pacing the entire length of floor in front of the sweeping glass window. You walk over, standing by the couch and watch him. The oversized grey tee hangs loose on your frame, a stark contrast to his dark, tailored sweats.

He stops abruptly, turning to face you with the full force of his strategist gaze. He walks towards you but stops a coffee table’s length away.

“Give me a hickey.”

“Excuse me?” You take a definitive step back and away from Seokjin. He looks completely serious, if not a little awkward, as he waves his good hand at you in a hurried gesture. “Why would I... why do you need me to do that?”

“Because... I’m certain you’ve heard. Apparently, I’ve been kidnapped and is now missing. Now, come here and give me a hickey.”

“That explains nothing?!” You laugh, the sound a little high-pitched and incredulous in the silent room.

Seokjin sighs, dropping his hand, and then looks at you like you’re a child and he’s explaining primary colors. “My reputation is a mess, and I’d like to keep it that way. Everyone thinks I left the club with my lover, so I’m going to show them I did just that.”

You have to admit, he’s right. Taejin and Doyun are trying to activate a police manhunt, and the public is already giving him the benefit of the doubt based on his past scandals. The fastest way to shut down an investigation is to publicly confirm a reckless weekend of passion.

“And you need me to give you a hickey?” You ask, just to be sure, because it’s like he’s not hearing the crazy he’s spouting.

“Yes.” And then, he shakes his head like he’s just realised how he sounds and what he’s asking. “I need to capitalize on the narrative. I’ll also have to briefly record you.” As you open your mouth to protest, he puts his hand up. “Don’t worry. I won’t show your face. I just…”

“How about I hit you really hard?”

“Y/n...” He honest to God whines your name, the sound laced with a genuine desperation that, frankly, wouldn’t be there otherwise. “Please.”

You both stare at each other for a minute, the absurdity of the request hanging in the air between you.

“I don’t know where you’ve been.” You make a face, scanning him from head to toe. It’s satisfying to see the frustration tick up in his eyes. You should record this for blackmail, so that if he tries anything once all of this is over and done with, you’d remind him that he was just above kneeling at your feet for a love bite.

“Fine. Then I’ll give you one.” He takes a step towards you, and you dart across the room and around the couch, the polished wood floor suddenly an obstacle course. He stares at the spot you just left and slowly turns his head to look at you.

“That’s sexual harassment, sir.” You say, and for some reason, you find this absurdly funny.

“I would never!” Seokjin cries, looking genuinely appalled that you’d say that. Then, he gives you a sort of kicked puppy look that makes it even funnier, and you brace your hand against the couch, leaning forward with a laugh. “C’mon. Help me out.”

“You can’t say that.” You snort through a fit of giggles. “This ain’t a porno.”

There’s a helpless smile growing on his lips as he walks around the couch, following as you do. “This is really important.”

“I’m sure you don’t need me sucking on your neck to fix that.” You say, reaching the spot where he was standing before. The seriousness of the situation isn’t lost on you, and as amusing as it is to you to watch Seokjin nearly explode as give him a run-around, it is the best course of action.

“Alright, alright.” You sigh, and Seokjin looks immensely relieved, smiling widely.

“Perfect! Only---” he looks around at the living room with a too scheming look slipping into his smile, “We have to go back to your room.”

“You know.” You say, watching him walk past you, “I saw a porn that started just like this.”

Seokjin tugs you along with an exasperated sigh.

When you get back to your room, he’d adjusted the tint of the windows to let more of the morning light in, and then, gently directs you to sit on the edge. He stares at you for a moment before fussing with your hair, like a hairstylist on a time crunch to get things just right. Maybe he’s wasted in the tech industry. He carefully roughs up the ends and strategically musses the layers around your face---creating whatever exact look of ‘we spent the weekend messing around’ he thinks the public expects. When he was done, he takes a step back to stare at you intensely.

The heat of his gaze is palpable. He closes the distance in a single step, leaning into your bubble. His scent---that same clean, expensive, smell you remember from the club---fills your lungs.

“Can I kiss you?”

“What?” You blink up at him. He’s already looking at you, waiting for you to process. A hickey is one thing. This is another entirely! It must have shown on your face because in the next minute, he’s apologising.

“I’m sorry… I… they’re trying to smoke me out,” He sighs through his nose softly and gazes above your head, focusing on some distant, invisible point. “I need you to look a certain way else this won’t work.”

“Alright.”

Seokjin raises his right hand, fingers lightly brushing up your arm and then across your cheek until the length of his fingers disappear into your hair, cradling the back of your head. He gently tilts your chin upwards, and then he’s suddenly closer than he’s ever been. Your heart kicks against your ribcage like a frantic, trapped bird.

You’re not blind; you have eyes that work. Seokjin is an attractive guy. You’d thought as much when you first saw him on Friday, no point trying to backtrack. From this close, you can see the faint moles that dot his face, subtle and soft in the light: one just off the bridge of his nose, another above the right side of his upper lip. And wow, his eyes are really brown---deep, dark pools that you could easily lose yourself in.

You wonder, briefly, if this is what those ancient Victorian maidens felt like. Heck, like you said before, you’re no blushing virgin. But the last time you dated was...a long time ago. Didn’t end well.... well, it ended amicably enough, but regardless! You’d be clutching your pearls right now if you had pearls to clutch.

“You’re allowed to say no.” He says softly, his breath a warm whisper against your mouth.

You shake your head, the movement slight, your throat too tight for a proper word. “It’s fine.”

Seokjin tilts his head slightly and leans towards you. The kiss is surprisingly soft, a lot gentler than you imagined; a hesitant, almost questioning press of his lips against yours. Not… that… you’ve imagined kissing him, no! At all!

He pulls away, and you think for a minute he’s done, but he doesn’t let you breathe. Seokjin kisses you fiercely this time, his mouth possessing yours with a sudden, needy urgency. Your knees hit the back of the bed. You’re lucky enough to catch yourself without bending your wrist the wrong way against the mattress. His knee comes up to rest between yours to counter the lost balance, pinning you lightly to the spot. One of your hands curls into the bedsheets.

Through your little surprised gasp, the warmth of his tongue slides along the seam of your parted lips. His fingers tighten in your hair and give a barely-there tug, just enough to tilt your head back some more, and sharp enough that the involuntary sound you make surprises even you.

He pulls away slightly, his mouth trailing fire along the line of your jaw, his teeth skating over your pulse point. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine that you have no control over. Your hand that isn’t gripping the sheets for dear life, instead, goes to the back of his neck.

He tugs your hair a little harder, giving him access, and spends a good, messy minute going at your neck. The suction is deep, the pressure just bordering on painful, ensuring a visible mark is left behind.

Then, just as suddenly as the fierce kiss began, it stops.

Seokjin doesn’t pull far away. Instead, he rests his forehead against your shoulder, his weight pressing down slightly as his body shudders with a deep, shaky inhale. His hand tightens momentarily against your scalp, breath coming in little bursts, dancing along your collarbone and the front of your tee.

You almost ask if he’s alright, although you’re not much better. You feel the slight tremor in his frame. It’s almost as if he’s thought about this long before it needed to happen, and the reality has overwhelmed him. Or maybe! You’re being delusional. The rush of blood pounding in your ears slowly fades, replaced by the thud of your heart beating furiously against your sternum.

“That,” you manage, your voice coming out hoarse, “was...thorough.”

He gives a humourless, choked sound that might be a laugh. He slowly pushes himself upright, hand---now out of your hair---holding his weight. His eyes are more black than brown now in the light filtering through the windows, and he carefully brushes his fingers over the now-tender spot on your neck, confirming the damage. The skin there already feels hot.

“Good,” he whispers, his voice thick.

You raise an eyebrow, the adrenaline starting to give way to your usual sharp-edged practicality. “It won’t be convincing if only one of us looks like they got lucky.”

You try not to think too hard about any of this as you lightly tug on the collar of his tee to find the smooth expanse of his neck. Your ears feel incredibly warm, and you can bet his are too, if the red flush is anything to go by.

You give him a couple, one deep, calculated suction right on the pulse point where his jaw meets his neck that will certainly turn purple, and another slightly lower, just above the dip of his collarbone, accessible by the stretched neckline.

Seokjin lets out a low, involuntary grunt as the pressure registers, his body tensing beneath the points of contact.

You pull back just far enough that your breath ghosts across his skin. You look at the two prominent, reddening marks you left.

“Is that good?” you ask, your voice soft and breathy, the pragmatic question feeling absurdly out of place given the heat of the contact.

Seokjin doesn’t open his eyes, his head still resting near yours. The warmth of him is intoxicating.

“Mhm,” he murmurs, the sound low in his throat. You probably wouldn’t have heard it if you weren’t so close.

His hand moves to your waist, and you jolt, he lets out a breathy chuckle, pulling back, but not too far from you. The way he’s looking at you makes you want to stick your head in some dirt and scream. Or, well, maybe just hide under the blankets for a bit until the warmth of your skin settles and doesn’t muddle your brain all that much.

You’re about to open your mouth to really ask if he’s okay now, because he’s done nothing but stare at you, but you barely get the chance.

He leans in again, pulling you flush against him.

This second kiss is completely different. It has nothing to do with Taejin or Doyun or the news cycle. It’s deep and possessive, a silent question he demands you answer with equal fervour. His good hand hooks around your back, pulling you taut against the solid wall of his chest. His lips are insistent, demanding, and you melt into the contact, answering the unexpected aggression with a sudden, matching hunger.

He presses you back onto the bed until you’re half-lying on the pristine white duvet, the kiss only breaking when he needs air.

He finally backs up and away from you, swiping at his bottom lip with his thumb. He clears his throat, staring out the window as your right yourself on the bed.

“I need you watch.” He says, looking at you briefly before looking away again. He almost looks shy, and the red flush to his ears had crawled its way down his neck. Shy! After all of that.

You’re no better.

You fumble to find the release pad of your watchband, and in a second it loosens and slides down your arm. You hold it out to him, sniffling loudly.

Seokjin takes the watch from you, navigating to the camera app. He adjusts the settings for a quick, vertical video upload.

“We need the right lighting,” he murmurs, already moving. He directs you back toward the headboard, where the morning light is just starting to streak across the duvet from the window. He sits down, leaning slightly against the headboard, and turns your watch camera to face both of you.

“Okay,” he instructs, gesturing with his head. “Sit behind me. Lean your chest against my back, arms over my shoulders---gently, the sling.”

You manoeuvre yourself awkwardly behind him. You can feel the heat radiating through the fabric of his shirt, and the solid, muscled plane of his back is surprisingly comforting. You carefully drape your arms over his shoulders, ensuring you avoid putting any pressure on the sling protecting his left arm.

He brings the watch up, tilting it slightly. The angle is a bit tricky, but it works: it perfectly frames his face, his messy hair, the hickey you left near his jaw and the one that peaks above the collar of his tee. Behind him, your face is cut off just above the bridge of your nose, ensuring your eyes and identity are hidden, but your chin, the curve of your neck, and the angry, reddening marks he left on you are prominently displayed.

He nods to himself, checking the composition. His features instantly soften into a look of casual, rumpled contentment---the kind that makes magazines millions. “Right.”

He taps the record button, and a small red light starts blinking on the watch face.

The camera is rolling.

You settle your chin onto the ridge of his shoulder, your arms lying limply over his chest. You keep your neck rigidly straight to ensure the hickey is visible. You think, this is how people sit when they’re together. Casual, relaxed. You blink slowly and wait.

Seokjin maintains the passive, satisfied expression for about fifteen seconds, then sighs, silently ending the recording.

He slowly rotates his body slightly to look at you over his shoulder; his brow furrowed in confusion.

“...What?” you ask, genuinely confused. Did the camera overheat?

His expression is utterly deadpan. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sitting here. I’m being still,” you defend, tilting your head so that you’re not looking down your nose at him.

“I know what still is and you’re being stiff, very big difference there.” He counters, exasperated. His professional ease is completely shattered by your complete lack of performance skills. He gestures toward the watch. “Look at yourself. You look like you’re being held hostage. You’re stiff as a board! Just act natural. Be comfortable. Put your head down, rub my neck, whatever. Have you never had a boyfriend before?”

The accusation of awkwardness stings, hitting close to your deep-seated discomfort with emotional performance. You almost laugh at the fact that he’s taking this so seriously ---it is pretty serious ---but it also reminds you that despite his flaws in the eyes of the public, Kim Seokjin is the CEO of Vionix. He’s spent most of his corporate time in front of a camera, for magazines, ads, interviews and you don’t doubt somewhere in his childhood he’s had media training. He knows his way around a camera, and he certainly knows how to fake an image.

“I’m not a virgin if that’s what you’re asking,” you retort, your voice sharp.

Seokjin stops, turning his head further back to stare at you, his eyes wide in genuine, disbelieving shock.

“That is not what I’m asking you!” he cries, the absurdity of the statement breaking through his focus. He throws his head back with a loud, surprised burst of laughter. He catches himself on the headboard to avoid jostling his sling.

You ignore the warmth spreading across your cheeks.

“It’s not as hard as you think.” He says, taking a deep breath and wiping the smile away, though his eyes remain crinkled at the corners. “Just try to look like you hate the camera, not me. Let’s go again.”

Seokjin resets the watch camera. He holds his face closer to the lens, pulling focus only onto his eyes and the new mark on his neck.

“Look, you don’t have to do anything,” he explains patiently. “Just lean your head against my back, like you’re comfortable but annoyed that I’m making this video. You can move your fingers on my chest or whatever feels right. Make it look like you own the space.”

Own the space. You can do that! It’s less acting and more asserting dominance.

He hits record again.

This time, you drop your chin onto the cushion of his shoulder, letting your body weight settle fully against his back. You deliberately soften your posture, mimicking the exhaustion of a truly long weekend. You let your fingers, draped over his chest, drag slowly across the fabric of his tee, just enough to be seen in the close-up shot.

Seokjin immediately responds to the shift. His eyes, though still conveying a reckless, satisfied look for the camera, lose the tightness of the strategist. He lets his head tilt back slightly, a silent, possessive gesture that draws the viewer’s attention to the contrast between his neck and your chin.

He lets the video roll for about twenty seconds, just long enough to capture the mood, the marks, and the rumpled morning light. Then, he ends the recording.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, his tone low and professional once more, the intimate moment sealed off. He immediately navigates your watch to his social media interface---an elegant, obsidian-black app that runs the new age equivalent of Instagram; a platform known as Aura.

He quickly reviews the video, using the watch’s augmented features to crop the edges into a neat, vertical story format. He types a short, dismissive phrase onto the screen, blurring the text slightly so it looks flippant and unplanned: ‘Didn’t realize I was supposed to check in.’ Then, he quickly assigns a popular, generic pop song from the platform’s library to loop softly in the background---something catchy, easily ignored, and very unserious.

He hesitates for just a fraction of a second, his thumb hovering over the post button. This isn’t just a flippant upload; this is the official countermove to a corporate coup.

“Posting now,” he warns.

He taps the screen.

Within five minutes, the silent, intimate twenty-second video is viral. Which is as terrifying as it is insane to you. Seokjin could probably post a video about him eating a slice of cake and people would cheer him on.

The watch begins to buzz softly on the bed next to you, alerting Seokjin to the exponential surge. The news channels, which had been tentatively running the “Missing CEO” ticker, are forced to scramble. The “missing” narrative dies instantly. The focus is entirely on the identity of the Mystery Woman, who is now definitively The Girlfriend, a sudden, reckless, and highly scrutinized feature of the world’s most eligible CEO.

“That should buy us forty-eight hours of silence from the police and the board,” he says, putting the watch down. “They’ll be too busy fighting the optics of this to track my location.”

Over the next couple of hours, the video continues to be shared across platforms. You and Seokjin stand around in the kitchen, discussing your next course of action.

There’s still one tiny issue in the Very Big Problem: the photo of you on the news. The one that had spread like a fire in a dry field after this morning’s broadcast.

Luckily, the photo itself is your saving grace, your face is nowhere in it. However, caution is your best friend right about now. Technology is so advanced that even if your face is mistakenly a blurry, grainy reflection on the club building’s exterior, someone can make something of it.

Unfortunately, there’s only so much you can do from your watch. Jimin knows his way around hacking systems but not on the scale you need.

“I know a guy.” You told Seokjin, waving off his worry before it becomes yours.

This would be the part in an epic movie where the main character gets to contact a very cool guy that probably knows a way cooler guy to do some stuff valuable to the plot. Unfortunately, this guy is just your ex, and he owes you a favour. Doesn’t make him less valuable, just makes it a lot harder to actually reach out.

You’d left Seokjin in the living room, using a Holowatch he’d magically procured from a drawer in his server room to contact Jimin for “explaining the situation”. It’s not that you don’t trust Seokjin, though, purely based on the fact that he’s so good at fooling people, you suspect that’s not the only reason he needs to speak to your best friend-–who you didn’t want involved in any of this!---without you in the room.

Your list of contacts is... dismal at best, and it doesn’t take long to find the contact name you never switched out. Like you said before, it ended well enough, in a way that you were still in contact as friends afterwards and just...stopped talking. Amicable.

You hadn’t spoken to him in a long while, you’re not even sure if his contact is still the same. It better be. Or you’d have to get Jimin to do it. And he and Jimin are...well...cordial at best.

Your finger hover over his contact name, and you take a breath before tapping on it.

It rings, which is a good thing, and by the fourth, just as you think it’s going into voicemail, he picks up.

“Nero.” Comes the grumble on the other side.

You snort, “Is this your work number, now?”

There’s a pause, and then a low laugh, “Well, well, well. Fancy hearing from you, Birdie.” He drawls. Your watch beeps as he requests a video call. Sighing, you accept, he smiles when the feed loads. “Been, what, two years?”

“Two and a half.”

“Ouch.” He says, a hand on his chest, and his eyes narrowed in a show of mock hurt, “thought we were better than that.”

“Yoongi.”

“I saw your fine ass on the news this morning. Whatcha got yourself into this time?”

Min Yoongi, fellow hacker in the underground, adept in making people disappear. If you want to not be found, have all traces of you gone from every system? He’s your guy.

“I’m calling in the marker.” You say and he pokes his tongue into his cheek. From where he’s sitting, you can see that he’s in his work room. It’s a deliberately dark, comfortable space, lit primarily by the cool, steady glow of a massive, curved wall of monitors that fill the background behind his desk. The black couch you’d spend many days on is tucked into a corner, and the guitar you bought him is propped up against the wall next to it.

“I mean...” he drags the word out, spinning slightly on his chair, “I’m kinda busy....working.”

“This is literally important.” You deadpan, “And I know your ass isn’t doing shit. You go off grid when you work. You wouldn’t have answered my call.”

“Maybe you’re special.” He smiles, all gummy, but he nods, “You need me to ghost you, right?”

“I wouldn’t have called otherwise.”

“Treated like a common whore.” Yoongi shakes his head, “Give me a minute.”

He spins his chair to face his wall of glowing monitors. You watch his profile go rigid, his fingers flying across the keyboard, already executing background searches. The silence stretches, filled only by the frantic click of keys and the low hum of his server farm.

It only takes a couple of minutes for him to run the deep search, cross-referencing the news broadcasts from the morning. The quiet clicking stops, and he leans back in his chair, rotating slowly to face you again.

His mouth is a thin, flat line, but his eyes hold a spark of respect for the sheer scale of the digital cleanup.

“Damn,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “They spread your ass far and wide... the image is everywhere. Luckily for you, I’m a professional.”

He spins back to the monitors, pulling up a complex, dark-themed dashboard. “I’ve tagged the source image and mirrored the initial suppression command across the main news conduits. It’ll start scrubbing copies, but it’s going to take time to completely disappear from all caches and social mirrors. Expect it to be gone from major networks within the hour, and almost completely untraceable by tomorrow morning.”

He glances at the feed. “I’ve done you an additional favour and cleaned Lumen’s footage. Tell that boyfriend of yours your ex says hi.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

Yoongi doesn’t wait for a reply, his face already intense as he focuses on his complex task. The video feed remains open, a silent window into the world-class operation he is running on your behalf.

“You owe me, Birdie.” He says before the video drops and he’s gone. Seconds later you receive a pop up of a black cat disappearing behind a lamppost and a “Tag, you’re it.” text.

You walk to the living room, Seokjin is no longer talking to Jimin, and you don’t have the chance to ask him about it.

“Okay.” He begins, turning to face you as you sit on the couch next to him, “I have a plan.”

Tags: @dontstoptime @themwordsblog @haru-jiminn @yukina0521

please, please, please. A lot of effort and time went into the creation of this fic, taking the time to write a comment would be so nice! Don't be a silent reader!! Ask questions, rant, anything at all is appreciated. Also!!! Reblog! rebloging is very important for visibility and for other folks that enjoy these types of fics to discover em!

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